PS 3545 
I.P61 E2 

11908 

i 

Copy 2 



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.s 



THE 



Easiest Way 



A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 



Cugene Walter 



Note. — This play is here privately 
printed and not for circulation. All its 
dramatic rights are fully secured, and 
proceedings will be immediately taken 
against anyone who attempts to infringe 
them. 



NEW YORK 

Printed at the Goerck Art Press 

1908 



^ 



THE 

Easiest Way 

An American play concerning 
a peculiar phase of New York 
life, in Four Acts and Four 
Scenes - _ - _ 

BY 

Cuserie Walter 




-. <^. 






j^^ 



«^10 



LIBRARY or GOiiGiiiSS 
Twc Copie* -{ecsived 







Ci lo. 






Copyright 1908 by 

Cugene l©a(ter 






CHAR A CTERS of the PL A Y 

John Madison 
Willard Brocton 

Jim Weston 

Laura Murdoch 

Elfie St. Clair 

Annie 



Synopsis 

Act I. 

Mrs. William's ranch house or country 
home, perched on the side of Ute Pass, 
near Colorado Springs, Colorado. 

Time: Late in an August afternoon. 

Act II. 
Laura Murdock's furnished room, second 
story back. New York. 

Time: Six months later. 

Act III. 

Laura Murdock's apartments in an expensive 
hotel. 
Time: Two months later. In the morning. 

Act IV. 

The same as Act. III. 

Time: The same afternoon. 



Description of Characters 

LAURA MURDOCK, twenty-five years of age, is 
a type that is not uncommon to the theatrical life 
in New York, and which has grown in importance 
in relation to the profession since the business of 
giving public entertainments has been so utterly re- 
duced to a commercial basis. 

At an early age she came from Australia and 
settled in San Francisco. She was gifted with con- 
siderable beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment that 
soon raised her in a position of more or less importance in a local 
stock company playing in that city. 

A woman of intense superficial emotions; her imagination is 
without any enduring depths, but for the passing time she can 
place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion. Sen- 
sually, the woman had marked characteristics, and with the flattery 
that surrounded her she soon becam.e a favorite in the select circles 
who made such places as ''The Poodle Dog" and "Zincand's" 
famous. 

In the matter of general dissipation she was always careful not 
in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her phy- 
sical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her sense of keen 
worldly calculation. 

In time she married. It was, of course, a failure. Her vacil- 
lating nature was such that she could not be absolutely true tO' the 
man to whom she had given her life, and after several bitter ex- 
periences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front 
of her. There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of re- 
morse, and then peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attrac- 
tiveness that so marks this type of woman. She was deceived by 
other men in many various ways, and finally came to that stage of 
life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up." 

At the early age of 19 she married again with equally disas- 
trous results, and later the attention of a prominent theatrical man- 
ager being called to her, she took an important part in a unique 



New York production and immediately gained considerable repu- 
tation. The fact of her two marriages and that she had gone 
through, before reaching the age of womanhood, more escapades 
than most women do when they are about to depart life after having 
lived it to the full, was not generally known in New York, and there 
was not a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism that 
betrayed it. She was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. Her 
keen sense of wordly calculation led her to believe that in order to 
progress in her theatrical career she must have some other influence 
outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment, so she attempted 
to infatuate, with no little success, a hard-headed, blunt and sup- 
posedly invincible theatrical manager, who, in his cold, stolid way, 
gave her what love there was in him. This, however, not satisfying 
the woman, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a 
young man of wealth and position who could give her in his 
youth, the exuberance and joy utterly apart from the character 
of the theatrical manager, she adopted him and for a while lived 
with him. Exhausting his money she cast him aside, always spend- 
ing a certain part of the time with the theatrical manager. The 
young man became crazed, and at a restaurant tried to murder all 
of them. 

From that time up to the opening of the play her career was 
a succession of brilliant coups in the matter of gaining the con- 
fidence and love, not to say some money, of men of all ages and all 
works in life. Her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity 
of purpose. She had never made an honest effort to be an honest 
woman, although she had imagined herself always persecuted, the 
victim of circumstances, and was always ready to excuse any vicious- 
ness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties. 

An unsci*upulous aunt was adopted to act as a shield for her 
moral transgressions, and while acknowledged to be a mistress of 
her business — that of acting — from a purely technical point of view, 
her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in 
her private affairs had been such as to make it impossible for her 
to sincerely impress audiences with real emotional power, and, 
therefore, without the said influences, which she always had at 
band, she remained a mediocre artist. 

At the time of the opening of our play she has played a summer 
engagement with a stock company in Denver, which has just been 
terminated. She has met there John Madison, a man of about 
twenty-seven years of age, whose position was that of a dramatic 
critic on one of the local papers. Laura Murdock, with her usual 
wisdom, started in to fascinate John Madison, but found, for once 
in her life, she had met her match. 

John Madison was good to look at, frank, verile, but a man 

6 



of broad experience, and not to be hoodwinked. For the first time 
Laura Murdock felt that the shoe was pinching on the other foot, 
and without any possible indication of reciprocal affection she was 
slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love 
with him. 

She had for the past two years been the special favorite and 
mistress of Willard Brocton. The understanding was one of pure 
friendship. He was a man who had a varied taste in the matter of 
selecting his women, was honest in a general way, and perfectly 
frank about his amours. He had been most generous to Laura 
Murdock, and his close relations with several very prominent the- 
atrical managers made it possible for him to always secure her 
desirable engagements, generally in New York. 

With all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura 
Murdock found no equal to this sudden, this slowly increasing love 
for the young Western man. At first she attempted to deceive him. 
Her baby face, her masterful assumption of innocence and childlike 
devotion made an impression upon him. He let her know in no un- 
certain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped on 
American soil in San Francisco, to the time when she had come 
to Denver, but still he liked her. And at the beginning of this play 
we find both these people thoroughly understanding each other and 
believing in each other's love. 

John Madison is a peculiar type of the Western man. 
Up to the time of his meeting Laura he had always been employed 
either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the Mississippi 
River. He was one of those itinerant reporters, to-day you might 
find him in Seattle, to-morrow in Butte, the next week in Denver, 
and then possibly he would make the circuit from Los Angeles to 
Frisco, and then all around again. He drank his whiskey straight, 
played his faro fairly, and was not particular about the women 
with whom he went. 

He started in life in the Western country at an early age. 
His natural talents, both for literature and general adaptability to 
all conditions of life, were early exemplified, but his alma mater 
was the barroom, and the faculty of that college, the bartenders and 
gamblers and general habitues who characterized them. 

He seldom had social engagements outside of certain disrepu- 
table establishments, where a genial personality or an overburdened 
pocketbook gives entree, and where the rules of conventionality 
have never even been whispered. His love affairs were confined to 
this class of women and seldom lasted more than a week or ten 
days. 

His editors knew him as a brilliant genius, irresponsible, unre- 
liable, but at times inestimably valuable. He cared little for personal 

7 



appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness, and was quick on 
the trigger, in a time of over-heated argument could go some dis- 
tance with his fists, and his whole career is best described as 
"happy-go-lucky/' 

He realized fully his ability, that he could do almost anything 
fairly well and some things especially well, but he never tried to 
accomplish an}1;hing beyond the earning of a comfortable living. 
Twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed ; with that he 
could buy his liquor, treat his women, some times play a little 
faro, sit up all night and sleep all day, and in general lead a life of 
good-natured vagabondage that had always pleased him and which 
he had chosen as a career. 

The objection of safer and saner friends to this form of liveli- 
hood was always met by him with a slap on the back and a laugh, 
"Don't you worry about me, partner, if I'm going to hell I'm going 
there with bells on," was always his rejoinder, and yet when called 
upon to cover some great big news story, or report some tremen- 
dously vital event, he settled down to his work with a steely de- 
termination and a grim joy that resulted in work which classified 
him as almost a genius. Any great mental effort of this character, 
any jLisuaL achievement along these lines would be immediately fol- 
lowed by a protracted debauch that would upset him physically 
and m.entally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered and 
landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went 
at his work. 

If there had been opportunities to meet decent women of good 
social standing he had always thrown them aside with the declara- 
tion that they bored him to death, and there never had entered into 
his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met Laura. 
He fell for a moment under the spirit of her fascination, and then, 
with that cold logic he analyzed her, and found out that exteriorly 
she had every sign of girlhood, ingenuousness, sweetness of char- 
acter and possibility of aft'ection, but that spiritually and mentally 
she was nothing more than a moral wreck. He observed keenly her 
efforts to win him and her disappointment at her failure, not that 
she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity 
not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vaga- 
bond, when she had met men of wealth and position whom she made 
kneel at her feet. He slowly observed her changing point of view 
and from her kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, 
really sincere, he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent 
affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first de- 
sire to do things and be big and worth while, and together these 
two drifted toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent 
thought, and decent love until at last they both found themselves 

8 



and acknowledged all the wickedness of what had been and planned 
for all the virtue and goodness of what was to be, and it is at this 
point that our first act begins 

Elfie St. Clair is a type of a Tenderloin grafter in New 
York, who, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning, 
but who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated and bull- 
dozed by the type of men who prey on women in New York, had 
turned the tables and with her charm and her beauty gone out to 
make the same slaughter on the other sex as she suffered with ma^iy 
of her sisters. 

She is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is 
dictated by a small mental operation. Coming to New York as a 
beautiful girl she entered the chorus. She became famous for her 
beauty. On every hand were the rich and despicable stagedoor vul- 
tures ready to give her any thing that a woman's heart could de- 
sire, from clothes, to horses, carriages, money and what not, but 
Elfie St. Clair, at this time, with a girl-like instinct, fell in love 
w-ith a man connected with the company, and during all the time 
that she might have profited and become a rich woman by the at- 
tentions of these outsiders, she remained true to this man until 
finally her fame as the beauty of the city waned The years told on 
her to a certain extent, and there were the others coming as young 
as she had been, and as good to look at, and where before the auto- 
mobile of the millionaire was at hand for her, she found that 
through her trust ill her lover that it was there for some one else, 
but she was content with her joys until finally the man deliberately 
jilted her and left her alone. 

What had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen 
knowledge of human nature and of men, so she determined to give 
herself up entirely to a life of gain. She knew just how much 
champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health; she 
knew just what physical necessities should be indulged in to pre- 
serve to the greatest degree her remaining beauty. There was 
no trick of the hair-dresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any 
one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the 
physical fascinations of women, which she did not know. She 
knew exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how 
she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and 
all this she determined to devote to profit. 

She knew that as an actress, per se, she had no future ; that 
the time of a woman's beauty was limited ; she was conscious of the 
fact that already she had lost the youthful litheness of figure that 
had made her so fascinating in the past, so she laid aside every Sen- 
timent, physical and spiritual, and determined to choose a man as 
her companion who had the biggest bankroll and the most liberal 

9 



intention. His age, his station in life, the fact whether she Hked 
or disliked him should not enter into this scheme at all, she figured 
that she had been made a fool of by men and there was only one 
revenge, the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of 
them once and for all. 

There were, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she en- 
joyed, and in a way she indulged them. There were men whose 
company she cared for, but their association was practically sexless 
and had come down to a point of mere good fellowship. 

WiLLARD Brockton, a New York broker, was an honest 
sensualist, and when one says an honest sensualist, the mean- 
ing is a man who had none of the cad in his character, who took 
advantage of no one, and allowed no one to take advantage of him. 
He honestly detested any man who took advantage of a pure woman. 
He detested any man who deceived a woman. He believed that 
there was only one way to go through life, and that was to be frank 
with those with whom one dealt; although he was a master hand 
in stock manipulation and the questionable practices of Wall 
Street, he realized that he had to play his cunning and craft against 
the cunning and craft of others in the deep game of speculation. 
He was not at all in sympathy with this mode of living, but he 
thought it was the only method by which he could succeed in life, 
and he measured success in life by the accumulation of money, and 
he considered his business career as a thing apart from his private 
existence. 

He never associated, to any great extent, in what is known as 
Society of Fifth Avenue. He kept in touch with it simply to main- 
tain his business position. There is always an inter-relationship 
among the rich in business and private life, and he gave such enter- 
tainments as were necessary to the members of New York's exclu- 
sive set, simply to make certain his relative position with other suc- 
cessful Wall Street men. 

As far as women were concerned, the certain type of actress, 
such as Laura Murdock and Elfie St.. Clair, appealed to him ; 
he liked their good fellowship. He loved to be with a gay party 
at night in a cafe, he liked the rather looseness of living, which did 
not quite approximate the disreputable, and, in fact, his was a Bo- 
hemian nature. Behind all this, however, was a rather high-sense 
of honor, he detested and despised the average stagedoor Johnny, 
and he loathed the type of man who sought to take young girls 
out of theatrical companies and accomplish their ruin. 

His girl friends were as wise as himself. When they entered 
into an agreement with him there was no deception. In tlie first 
place he wanted to like them, in the second place he wanted them 
to like him, and lastly, he wanted to fix the amount of their living 

10 



at a definite figure and have them stand by it. He wanted them to 
understand that he reserved the right at any time to withdraw his 
support or transfer it to some other woman, and he gave them the 
same privilege. 

He was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and 
he always hoped that some of these girls whom he knew would 
finally come across the right man, marry and settle down, but he in- 
sisted that such an arrangement could only be possible by the honest 
admission on the woman's part of what she had done and been, and 
the thorough understanding of all these things by the man in- 
volved. 

He was gruff in his manner, determined in his purposes, honest 
in his point of view. He was a brute, almost a savage, but he was 
a thoroughly good brute, and a pretty decent savage. 

At the time of the opening of this play he and Laura Murdock 
had been friends for two years. He knew exactly what she was 
and what she had been, and their relations were those of pals. She 
had finished her season in Denver and he had come out there for the 
purpose of accompanying her home. 

He had always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent 
with her happiness to continue her relations with him it was her 
privilege to quit, and he had reserved the same condition. 



II 



ACT I. 

Scene. The scene is that of the summer coinniry ran^h house 
of Mrs. Williams, a friend of Laura Murdock's, and a 
prominent society woman of Denver, on th-e side of Ute Pass, 
near Colorado Springs. On each side of the stage are the parts of 
the house, nearly all the stage being devoted to the peculiar 
sort of court that is built in these country homes and covered 
by a peaked roof. Up stage where this end^ is siipposed to be 
the part of the porch overlooking the canyon, a sheer drop of 
2,000 feet, while over the roof and through the porch one can 
see the rolling foothills and lofty peaks of the Rockies iwith 
Pike's Peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. The 
porch is strewn until rugs and willozv furnitme. There is a 
curtain at the back of the porch or court, by zi^hich the sun can 
be shut off , but this is noiv dran^n. A tea service is on a table 
and everything has the appearance of luxury and zi^ealth. It is 
late in the afternoon and as the scene progresses the quick tzvi- 
light of a canyon, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, be- 
comes later pitch black, and the curtain goes dozvn on an abso- 
lutely black stage. The cyclorama or semi-cyclorama must give 
the perspective of greater distances, and be so painted that the 
various tints of tzmlight may be shozvn. The entrances are R 
and L in tzvo being doors zvhich open into each side of the ranch 
house. The doorzvay is half concealed by Japanese hangings 
of bamboo and bead curtains. 
At Rise. [Laura Murdock is seen up R stage leaning a bit over 
the balustrade of the porch and shielding her eyes zinth her 
hand from the late afternoon sun as she seemingly looks up the 
Pass to the L as if in expectation' of discovering the approach 
of some one. Her gozim- is simple, girlish and attractive, and 
made of thai summery, filmy stuff zuhich zvomen utilize so ef- 
fectively. Her hair is done up in the simplest fashion zmth a 
part in the centre, and there is about her every indication of an 
effort to assume that girlishness of demeanor zvhich has bee^i 
her greatest asset through life. Willard Brockton enters 
from L; he is a man six feet or more in height, stocky in build, 
clean shaven and immaculately dressed. He is smoking a cigar, 
aH^d upon [entering takes one step forzvard and looks over' 
tozvard Laura in a semi-meditative manner.] 

Will. Blue? 

Laura. No. 

Will What's up? 

Laura. Nothing. 

Will. A little preoccupied, if you ask me. 

Laura. Perhaps. 

12 



Will. What's up that way. 

Laura. Which way? 

Will. The way you are looking. 

Laura. The road from Manitou Springs. They call it the trail 
out here. 

Will. I know that. You know I've done a lot of business west of 
the Missouri. 

Laura \With a half -sigh.] No, I didn't know it. 

Will. Oh, yes; south of here in the San Juan country. Spent a 
couple of years there once. 

Laura. [Still zvithout turmiig.] That's interesting. 

Will. It was then. I made some money there. It's always inter- 
esting when vou make money and it's mighty dull when you don't. 
Still- ^ ^ - 

Laura. [Still leaning in an ahsent-tninded attitude.'] Still what? 

Will. Can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that 
road — or excuse me — trail. Expect some one ? 

Laura. Yes 

Will. One of Mrs. William's friends, eh? 

Laura. Yes. 

Will. Yours too? 

Laura. Yes. 

Will. Man? 

Laura. Yes, a real man. 

Will. [Catches the significance of this speech. He carelessly 
throws the cigar over the balustrade. Moving for the first time he 
comes down C and sits in a chair with his back to Laura; she has 
not moved more than to place her left hand on a cusfvion and lean 
her head rather zvearily againsi it, looking steadfastly up the Pass.] 
a real man. By that you mean 

Laura. Just that — a real man 

Will. Any difference from the many you have known ? 

Laura. Yes, from all I have known. 

Will. So that is why you didn't come into Denver to meet me 
to-day, but left word for me to come out here? 

Laura. Yes. 

Will. I thought that I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half- 
way across the continent in order to keep you company on your 
way back to New York and welcome you to our home, but maybe 
I had the wrong idea. 

Laura. Yes, I think you had the wrong idea. 

Will. In love, eh? 

Laura. Yes. In love. 

Will. A new sensation. 

Laura. No; the first conviction. 

13 



Will. You have had that idea before. Every woman's love is the 
real one when it comes. Do you make a distinction in this case, 
young lady? 
Laura. Yes. 

Will. For instance, what ? 

Laura. This man is poor ; absolutely broke ; he hasn't even got a 
good job. You know, Will, all the rest, including yourself, gen-- 
erally had some material inducement. 
Will. What's his business? 
Laura. He's a newspaper man. 
Will. H-m-m. Romance? 

Laura. Yes, if you want to call it that — Romance. 
Will. Do I know him ? 

Laura. How could you, you only came from New York to-day and 
he has never been there. 

[She turns and comes down and sits near him. He regards 
her with a rather amused, indulgent, almost paternal 
expression. In contrast to his big, bluff physical per- 
sonality, zmth his iron-grey hair and his bulldog ex- 
pression, Laura looks more girlish than ever. This 
is imperative in order to thoroughly understand the 
character.] 
Will. How old is he? 
Laura. 2y, you're 45. 
Will. No, 46. 

Laura. Shall I tell you about him? 
Will. That depends. 
Laura. On what? 
Will. Yourself. 
Laura. In what way? 

Will. H it will interfere in the least with the plans I have made 
for you and for me. 

Laura. And have you made any particular plans for me that have 
anything particularly to do with you? 

Will. Yes, I have given up the lease of our apartment on West 
End Avenue, and I've got a house on Riverside Drive. Everything 
will be quiet and decent, and it'll be more comfortable for you. 
There's a stable nearby and your horses and car can be kept over 
there. You'll be your own mistress and besides I've fixed you up 
for a new part. 

Laura. What kind of a part? 

Will. One of Charlie Burgess' shows, translated from some 
French fellow. It's been running over in Paris, Berlin and Vienna, 
and all those places for a year or more, and appears to be an awful 
hit. It's going to cost a lot of money. I told Charlie he could put 

14 



me down for a half interest, and I'd give the money providing you 
got the leading role. Great part, I'm told. Kind of a cross between 
a musical comedy and an opera. Looks as if it might stay in New 
York all season. So that's the change of plan. How does it strike 
you? 

Laura. T don't know. 

Will. Feel like quitting? 

Laura. I can't tell. 

Will. It's the new^spaper man, eh? 

Laura. That would be the only reason. 

Will. YouVe been on the square with me this summer, haven't 
you ? 

Laura. What do you mean by ''on the square"? 

Will. Don't evade, there's only one meaning when I say that, and 
you know it. I'm pretty liberal, but I draw the line in one place. 
You've not jumped that, have you, Laura ? 

Laura. No, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a won- 
derfully different summer. Can you understand what I mean by 
that when I say "wonderfully different summer" ? 

Will. Well, he's 27 and broke, and you're 25 and pretty, and he 
evidently being a newspaper man has that peculiar gift of gab that 
we call romantic expression, so I guess I'm not blind and you both 
think you've fallen in love. That it? 

Laura. Yes, I think that's about it ; only I don't subscribe to the 
''gift of gab" and the "romantic" end of it. He's a man and I'm a 
woman, and we both have had our experiences. I don't think, Will, 
that there can be much of that element of what some folks call 
hallucination. 

Will. Then the Riverside Drive proposition and Burgess' show 
is off, eh? 

Laura. I didn't say that. 

M^ill. And if you go back on the Overland Limited day after 
to-morrow, you'd just as soon I'd go to-morrow or wait until the 
day after you leave? 

Laura. I didn't say that, either. 

Will. What's the game? 

Laura. J can't tell you now. 

Will. Waiting for him to come? 

Laura. Exactly. 

Wilf. Think he is going to make a proposition, eh? 

Laura. I know he is. 

Will. Marriage? 

Laura. Possibly. 

Will. You've tried that twice and took the wrong end. Are you 
going to play the same game again? 

15 



Laura. Yes, but with a different card. 

Will. What's this young man's name? 

Laura. Madison — John Madison. 

IVill. And his job? 

Laura. Reporter. 

Will. Fine matrimonial timber. I suppose you think you'll live 
on the extra editions. 

Laura. No, we're young, there's plenty of time; I can work in 
the meantime and so can he, and then with his ability and my ability 
it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape 
themselves to make it possible. 

Will. Sounds well — a year off. 

Laura. If I thought you were going to make fun of me, Will, I 
shouldn't have talked to you. 

Will. I don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that 
after two years it isn't an easy thing to be dumped with so little 
ceremony. I know you have never given me any credit for pos- 
sessing the slightest feeling, but even I can receive shocks from 
other sources than a break in the market. 

Laura. It isn't easy for me to do this. You've been awfully kind, 
awfully considerate, but when I went to you it was just with the 
understanding that we were to be pals. You reserved the right then 
to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same 
privilege. Now, if some girl came along who really captivated you 
in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a 
little — maybe a lot — for after all a woman has her vanity, but I 
should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' 
notice clause, like people have in contracts. 

Will. [Gets up. He is evidently very much moved. Walks over 
and looks over the canyon. Laura looks after him. Will has 
his hack to the audience and Laura, who is seated unth hands 
clasped in her lap, evidently suffering from some emotion herself.] 
I'm not hedging, Laura. If that's the way you want it to be, I'll 
stand by just exactly what I said, but I'm fond of you, a damn sight 
fonder than I thought I was, now that I find you slipping away, 
but if this young fellow is on the square and he has youth and 
ability, and you've been on the square with him, why all right. 
Your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any 
celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, 
have a good husband, and maybe some day good children, why I'm 
not going to stand in the way, only I don't want you to make any 
of those mistakes that you made before. 

Laura. I know, but somehow I feel that this time the real thing 
has come and with it the real man. I can't tell you, Will, how much 
different it is, but everything I felt before seems so sort of earthly 

i6 



— and somehow this love that I have for this man is so different. 
It's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the 
first time in my life. The only other thing I ever had that I cared 
the lest bit about, now that I look back, was your friendship. We 
have been good pals, haven't we? 

IVill. Yes, it's been a mighty good two years for me. I was al- 
ways proud to take you around because I think you one of the pret- 
tiest things in New York, and that helps some, and you're always 
jolly, and you never complained. You always spent a lot of money, 
but it was a pleasure to see you spend it ; and then you never of- 
fended me. Most women offend men by coming around looking 
untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you aUvays knew the 
value of your beauty, and you always dressed up. I always thought 
that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you and 
make you happy in a nice way, but I thought that he'd have to have 
a lot of money. You know you've lived a rather extravagant life 
for ten years, Laura. It won't be an easy jot to come down to 
cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities youVe been used to. 

Laura. I've thought all about that, and I think I understand. 

Will. You know if you were working without anybody's help, 
Laura, you might have a hard time getting a position. As an acv 
tress you're only fair. 

Laura. You needn't remind me of that. My part of my life is my 
own. I don't v/ant you to start now and make it harder for me 
to do the right thing ; it isn't fair ; it isn't square, and it isn't right. 
YouVe got to let me go my own way. I'm sorry to leave you, in 
a way, but I want you to know that if I go with John it changes the 
vSpelling of the word mistress into wife, and comradeship into love. 
Now, please don't talk any more. 

Will. Just a word. Is it settled? 

Laura. [Rising impatiently.] I said I didn't know, I would know 
to-day, that's what I'm waiting for. Oh, I don't see why he doesn't 
come. 

Will. [PoinMng up the Pass^.] Is that the fellow coming up here? 

Laura. Jumping tip quickly and running tozvard the balustrade , 
saying as she goes.] Where? 

Will. [Pointing] Up the road there. Oti that yellow horse. 

Laura. [Looking.] Yes, that's John. [She zvaves her handker- 
chief, and putting one hand to her month cries] Hello! 

John. '[Off stage with the effect as if he was on the road zmnd- 
ing up tozvard the house.] Hello yourself! 

Laura. [Same effect.] Hurry up, you're late. 

John. [Same effect, a little louder.] Better late than never. 

Laura. [Same effect.] Hurry up. 

John, [little louder.] Not with this horse. 

17 



Laura. [To Will, 7cifh enthusiastic expression.'] Now., Will, 
does he look like a yellow reporter? 

Will. [With a sort of sad smile.] He is a good looking chap. 

Laura. [Looking dozen again^ at John.] Oh, he's just simply 
more than that. 

[Turns quickly to Will.] 

Where's Mrs. Williams? 

W^ill. [Motioning zviih tJiumb toward L side of ranch Jwiise.] 
Inside, I guess, np to her neck in bridge. 

Laura. [Goes hurriedly over to door.] Mrs. Williams! Oh, Airs. 
Williams ! 

Mrs. Williams. [Heard off stage*.] What is it, my dear? 

Laura. Mr. Madison is coming up the path. 

Mrs. Williams. [Off stage.] That's good. 

Laura. Shan't you come and see him? 

Mrs. Williams. [Same.] Lord, no! I'm six dollars and twenty 
cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck. 

Laura. Shall I give him some tea? 

Mrs. Williams. [Sanie.] Yes, do, dear, and tell him to cross his 
fingers when he thinks of me. 

[In the iiieautime, Will has leaned over the balustrade 
evidently surzwying the young man, who is supposed 
to be eouiiuig up the path, with a great deal of in^- 
terest. Un.dcrnca.th Jus stolid, businesslike demeanor 
of squareness, there is undoubtedly zvithin his heart 
a very great affection for Laura. He realised that 
during her whole career he has been the only one ivho 
has influenced her absolutely. Since the time that 
they lived together he has alwmys dominated and he 
has akvays endeavored to lead her along a path that 
meant the better things of a Bohemian existence. 
His coming all the ivay from Nezv York to Denver 
to accompany Laura home zvas simply another exam- 
ple of his keen interest in the zvoman and he suddenly 
finds that she has drifted azuay from him in a manner 
to zMch he could not in the least object, and that she 
had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement 
zvith him. Will is a man zvho, zvhile rough and rugged 
in many zvays, possessed many of the finer instincts 
of refinement, inherent though they may have been, 
and his meeting zinth John ought, therefore, to shozv 
much significance, because on his impressions of the 
young man depend the entire justification for his atti- 
tude in the play.] 

Laura. [Turning tozmrd Will and going to him, slipping her 

i8 



hand invohintarily through his arju and looking eagerly zmth him 
over the balustrade in almost girlish enthusiasm.] Do you like 
him? 

Will. [Smiling.] I don't know him. 

Laura. Well, do vou think you'll like him? 

Will. Well, I hope I'll like him. 

Laura. Well, if you hope you'll like him, you ought to think 
you like him. He'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute 
and then you can see him. Do you want to see him? 

Will. [Almost amused at her girlish maimer.] Why, yes, do 
you? 

Laura. Do I ? Why, I haven't seen him since last night ! There 
he is. [Waves her hand.] Hello, John! 

John. [His voice very close nozu.] Hello, girlie! How's every- 
thing ? 

Laura. Fine ! Do hurry. 

John. Just make this horse for a minute. Hurry is not in his 
dictionary. 

Laura. I'm coming down to meet you. 

John. All — right. 

Laura. [Turns quickly to Will.] You don't care; you'll wait, 
won't you? 

Will. Surely. 

[Laura hurriedly exits R and disappears. Will continues 
to gaze over the balustrade. He sees the tzoo meet 
underneath, shozi's the slightest trace of his emotion, 
takes a fresh cigar from his case, lights it, goes dozvn 
C. and sits rather dejectedly on one of the zvillozu 
chairs. After a short interval Laura cosines in more 
like a 16-year-old girl than anything else, pulling 
John after her. He is a tall, finely built specimen 
of Western manhood, a frank face, a quick nervous 
energy, a mind that zvorks like lightning, a prepos- 
sessing smile, and a personality that is zvholly capti- 
vating. His clothes are a bit dusty from the ride, 
but are not in the least pretentious, and his leggirts 
arc of canvas and spurs of brass, such as are used 
in the army. His hat is off and he is pulled on to 
the stage from the R entrance, m<ore like a great big 
boy than a man. His hair is a bit tumbled, and he 
shazi's every indication of having had a rather long 
and hard ride.] 
Laura. [Looking at Will zi^ho rises.] Here he is. 

[Then she suddenly recovers herself and realizes the posi- 
sition that she is in. Both men measiwe each other 
19 



for a moment in silence, neither flinching the least hit, 
The smile has faded from John's face, and the mouth 
droops into an expression of -firm determination. 
Laura for a moment loses her ingenuousness. She is 
the least hit frightened at finally placing the two men 
face to face, and in a voice that trembles slightly from 
apprehension.] 

Oh, I beg your pardon ! Mr. Madison, this is Mr. Brockton, a 
friend of mine from New York; you've often heard me speak of 
him; he came out here to keep me company when I go home. 

John. [Comes forzvard, extends a hand, looking Will right in the 
eye.] I am very glad to know you, Mr. Brockton. 

Will. Thank you. 

John. I've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to 
Miss Murdock. Anything that you have done for her in a spirit 
of friendless I am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and 
I count myself in as one. 

Wilt. [In on easy manner that rather disarms the antagonistic at- 
titude of John.]Then we have a good deal in common, Mr. Madison, 
for I also count Miss Murdock a friend, and when two friends of a 
friend have the pleasure of meeting, I daresay that's a pretty good 
foundation for them to become friends, too. 

John. Possibly. Whatever my opinion may have been of you, 
Mr. Brockton, before you arrived, now I have seen you, and I'm 
a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat; I don't mind 
telling you that you've agreeably surprised me — that's just a first 
impression, but they're kind o' strong with me. 

Will. Well, young man, I generally size up a fellow in pretty short 
order, and all things being equal, I think you'll do. 

Laura. [Radiantly.] Shall I get the tea? 

John. Tea ! 

Laura. Yes, tea. You know it must be tea — nothing stronger. 

John. [Looking at Will rather comically.] How strong are you 
for that tea, Mr. Brockton? 

Wilt. I'll pass, it's your deal, Mr. Madison. 

John. Mine ! No, deal me out this hand. 

Laura. I don't think you're at all pleasant, but I'll tell you one 
thing, it's tea this deal or no game. 

Will. No game then, and I'm going to help Mrs. Williams ; maybe 
she's lost nearly seven dollars by this time, and I'm an awful dub 
when it comes to bridge. 

John. Me too. Outside of poker I don't understand the language, 
although I have occasionally snowballed the faro bank. 

Will. [Who has Xed over to L and ahont to enter door.] Trouble 
with that game is the snowballs melt too fast. 

20 



John. Oh, not if you carry one under your arm for a long time 
until it gets nice and icy, then hit the high card right in the snoot. 

Will. I'll try my luck with Mrs. Williams. 

[Leaving, he nods and exits. As the act progresses the 
shadozvs cross the Pass and the golden light streams 
across the lozvcr hills and tops the snow-clad peaks. It 
becomes darker and darker, the lights fade to heautifiil 
adolescent hues, until, zvhen the curtain comes on the 
act, zvith John and Will on the scene, it is pitch dark, 
a faint glozv coming out of the door at R, hut nothing 
else can be seen biut the glozv of the coal on the end of 
each man's cigar as he puffs it in silent meditation of 
their conversation.] 

Laura. [As Will exits and looking up into John's eyes.] Well? 

John. Well, dear? 

Laura. Are you going to be cross with me? 

John. Why? 

Laura. Because he came. 

John. Brockton? 

Laura. Yes. 

John. You didn't know, did you? 

Laura. Yes, I did. 

John. That he was coming? 

Laura. He wired me when he reached Kansas City. 

John. Does he know? 

Laura. About us? 

John. Yes. 

Laura. I've told him. 

John. When? 

Laura. To-day. 

John. Here? 

Laura. Yes. 

John. With what result? 

Laura. I think it hurt him. 

John. Naturally. 

Laura. More than I had any idea it would. 

John. I'm sorry. 

Laura. He cautioned me to be very careful and to be sure I knew 
my way. 

John. That was right. 

[He sits dozun in one of the big zinllozif chairs and Laura 
comes and sits on the arm, her arm around its back 
and her arm lightly touching John's shoidder.] 
Laura. John. 
John. Yes. 

21 



Laura. We've been verv happy all summer. 

John. Very. 

Laura. And this thing has gradually been growing on us ? 

John. That's true. 

Laura. And now the season's over and there is nothing to keep 
me in Colorado, and I've got to go back to New York to work. 

John. I know ; I've been awake all night thinking about it. 

Laura. Well? 

John. Well? 

Laura. What are we going to do? 

John. Why, you've got to go, I suppose. 

Laura. Is it good-bye or — or — not? 

John. For a while, I suppose — it's good-bye. 

Laura. What do you mean by a while? 

John. Until I get money enough together, and am making enough 
to support you, then come and take you out of the show business 
and make you Mrs. Madison. 

[Laura tightens her arm around his neck, her cheek goes 
close to his oivn, and all the zvealth of affection that 
the woman is capable of at times is shozvn. She seems 
more like a dainty little kitten purring close to its mas- 
ter. Her zvhole thought and idea seem to he centered 
on the man whom she professes to love.] 

Laura. John ; that is what I want above everything else. 

John. But, Laura, we must come to some distinct understanding 
before we start to make our plans. We're not children. 

Laura. No, we're not. 

John. Now, in the first place, we'll discuss you, and in the second 
place, we'll discuss me. We'll keep nothing from each other and 
we'll start out on this campaign of decency and honor, fully under- 
standing its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on 
either side. 

Laura. [Getting very serious.] You mean that we should tell each 
other all about each other, so, no matter what's ever said about us 
by some other people we'll know it first. 

JoJiJt. That's precisely what I'm trying to get at. 

Laura. Well, John, there are so many things I don't want to 
speak of even to you ; it isn't easy for a woman to go back and ac- 
cuse herself on one hand while she tries to excuse herself on the 
other. Only I came to this country when I was nothing but a child, 
and I didn't know, and many things have happened, and I've drifted 
along what I found was the easiest way, and now that I have met 
you, and really love you, and want to make you an honorable wife, 
I found that I have gone the hardest way, and that all the bridges 
I might have passed over to a road of pleasant, lovely womanhood, 

22 



I have burned behind me. You're all I've got left. 

John. I've known from the first. I've known how you came to 
San Francisco as a kid and got into the show business, and how you 
went wrong, and then how you married and how your husband 
didn't treat you exactly right. He didn't understand, and he was 
jealous, and then how, in a fit of drunkenness, he came home and 
shot himself in front of your feet. [Laura buries her head in her 
hands. \1l\\{s was a good many years ago. I know^ all about your 
second marriage. I know the man you have been with, and how 
you've lived, and that you and this man Brockton have been — well 
- — I can't say it; I've known it all for months, and I've watched you. 
Now, Laura, the habit of life is a hard thing tO' get away from. 
You've lived in this luxury — never mind the price — but you've lived 
in it for ten years. If I ask you to be my wife you'll have to give 
it up ; you'll have to go back to New York and struggle on your 
own hook until I get enough to come for you. I don't know how 
long that will be, but it zmll be. Do you love me enough to stick 
out for the right thing? 

[Laura puts her arms around him, kisses him once very 
affectionately, looks at him very earnestly.] 

Laura. Yes. I think this is my one great chance. I do love you 
and I want to do just that. 

John. I think you will. I'm going to make the same promise. 
Your life, dear girl, has been an angel's compared with mine. I've 
drank whiskey, played bank and raised hell ever since the time I 
could develop a thirst and stay out all night without the old man 
giving me a licking in the morning, and ever since I've been able 
to go out and earn my own living I've abused every natural gift 
God gave me. I've never cared for only just enough to get along, 
and the word decency to me was like a red flag in a bull's face. The 
women I've associated with aren't good enough to touch the hem 
of your skirt, but they liked me, and, well — I must have liked them, 
partly because I was becoming slowly degraded, and partly because 
I didn't have anything else to do. My life hasn't been exactly loose, 
it's been all in pieces. I've never done anything dishonest, but out- 
side of that I guess I've broken all the commandments with a smfle 
on my face, and looked for the twelfth or thirteenth to see if it ex- 
isted. I've gone wrong just for the fun of it, all my life, until I 
met you. Somehow then I began to feel that I was making an 
awful waste of myself. I never once fooled myself about you. 
Some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say she can't be bad, 
and she never was bad. Well, I'm placing you on a pedestal and 
It'll read, "You umi't be bad." 

Laura. [Kissing him.] John, I'll never make you take those words 
back. 

23 



John. That goes double. You're going to cut out the cabs and 
cafes, and I'm going to cut out the whiskey and all-night sessions, 
and you're going to be somebody, and I'm going to be somebody, 
and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we're going to 
show folks things they never thought were in us. Kiss me now to 
seal the deal. 

[She kisses him; tears are in her eyes. He looks up intp 
her face zuith a quaint smile.] 

John. You're on, ain't you, dear? 

Laura. Yes, I'm on. 

John. Then {Points tozvard c?oor.]call him and tell him you go 
back to New York without any traveling companion this season. 

Laura. Brockton? 

John. Yes. 

Laura. Now? 

John. Sure. 

Laura. You want to hear me tell him? 

John. [With a smile.] We're partners, aren't we? I ought to be 
in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say. 

Laura. I think it would be right you should. I'll call him now. 

John. All right. 

[She Xes to door L; tzvilight is becoming very much more 
pronounced. 

Laura. [At door.] Mr. Brockton! Oh, Mr. Brockton! 

Will [Ojf stage.] Yes. 

Laura. Can you spare a moment to come out here? 

Will. Just a moment ; I've lost nearly a dollar and thirty cents. 

Laura. This is very immediate, quite imperative, can't you come? 

Will. All right. [She zvaits for him and after a reasonable interval 
he appears at door.] Laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that 
mad speculation in there. I thought I might make my fare back to 
New York if I played until next Summer. What's up? 

Lanira. Mr. Madison wants to talk to you, or rather I do, and I 
want him to listen. 

Will. [His manner changing to one of cold, stolid calculation.] 
Very well. 

[They come to C of stage. Will sits dozvn in chair near 
John and Laura takes a position so she can address 
them both in three-quarters viezv to audience.] 

Laura. Will. 

Will. Yes? 

Laura. I'm going home day after to-morrow on the Overland 
Limited. 

Will. I know. 

Laura. It's awfully kind of you to come out here to go home with 

24 



me, but under the circumstances I'd rather you'd take an earlier or 
a later train. 

Will. And may I ask what circumstances you refer to? 

Laura. Mr. Madison has asked me to be his wife. He knows of 
your former friendship for me, and he seems to have the idea that 
it's discontinuance is necessary in considering our future plan. 

Will. Then the Riverside Drive proposition with Burgess' show 
thrown in is declared off, eh? 

Laura. Yes; everything is absolutely and permanently de- 
clared off. 

Will. Can't even be friends any more, eh? 

John. You could hardly expect Miss Murdock to be friendly with 
you under the circumstances. You could hardly expect me to sanc- 
tion any such friendship. 

Will. I think I understand your position, young man, and I per- 
fectly agree with you, that is — if your plans come out pleasantly. 

Laura. Then everything is settled; just the way it ought to be 
— frankly and above board? 

Will. Why, I guess so. If I was perfectly confident that this new 
arrangement was going to result happily for you both, I think I'd 
be glad, only I'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become se- 
rious and then fail, I know how hard those things hit, having been 
hit once myself. 

John. So you think we're making a wrong move and there isn't 
a chance of success. 

Will. No, I don't make any such gloomy prophecy. If you make 
Laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and to- 
gether you win out, I'll be mighty glad. I shall absolutely and ut- 
terly efface from my mind every thought of Laura's friendship 
for me. 

Laura. I thought you'd be just that way. 

M-^ill. [Rising.] And now I must be off. [Takes her by both 
hands and shakes them.] Good-bye, girlie! Madison, good luck. 
[Shakes John's hands, looks into his eyes.] I think you've got the 
stuff in you to succeed, if your foot don't slip. 

John. What do you mean by my foot slipping, Mr. Brockton? 

M^ill. You want me to tell you? 

John. I sure do. 

Will. Laura, run into the house and see if Mrs. Williams has won 
another quarter. Madison and I are going to smoke a cigar and 
have a friendly chat, and when we get through I think we'll both 
be better off. 

Laura. We're all going to ride in town by moonlight in the buck- 
board — that is, after dinner. I'll leave you two together. 

[She goes toward the door and turns. Exit. Both men 

25 



sit down, one L and one just R of C] 

Will. Have a cigar? 

Jo'hn. Thank you ! 

[Takes cigar.] 

Will. What's your business? 

John. I work for a newspaper. 

Will. I know. What capacity? 

John. Sort or general utiHty reporter most of the time "and 
dramatic critic on Sunday and Monday nights. 

Will. Pay you well ? 

John. That's rather impertinent, isn't it? 

Will. Exactly. I'm going to be impertinent, do you mind? 

John. What's the game? 

Will. I'm interested. I'm a plain man, Mr. Madison, and I do 
my business in a plain way. My experience extends as far east of 
the Missouri as yours does west. Now, if I ask you a few ques- 
tions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it 
in your head that I'm jealous or sore, but simply I don't want either 
of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain 
and trouble. If you want me to talk sense to you, all right. If you 
don't, we'll drop it now. What's the answer? 

John. I'll take a chance, and I want to say, that while personally 
you seem to be pretty decent, the class of people that you belong 
to I despise; they don't speak my language. You are what they 
call a manipulator of stocks ; that means that you're living on the 
weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your 
daily bread and your cake and your wine from the production of 
other people. You're the class of man that I call a ''gambler under 
cover." Show me a man who's dealing bank and he's free and 
above board. You can sit down with a pencil and paper and figure 
the percentage against you, and then if you buck the tiger and get 
stung, you do it with your eyes open. With you and your alias 
of financier you play the game crooked twelve months of the year. 
You may be a fine man, but from a business point of view I think 
you're a crook. Now, I guess we understand each other. If you've 
got anything to say, whv spill it. 

Will. I like your talk for the sake of argument, but we're not 
talking business now, but women. How much money do you earn? 

John. Thirty dollars a week. 

Will. Dou you know how much Laura could make if she just took 
a job on her own merits? 

JohiK As I don't intend to share in her salary, I never took the 
trouble to inquire. 

Will. She'd get about forty dollars. 

John. That laps me ten. 



IVill. How are you going to support her? Her cabs cost more 
than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day 
walking hat. She's always had a maid; her simplest gown flirts 
with a hundred-dollar note ; her manicurist and her hairdresses will 
eat up as much as you pay for your board. She never walks when 
it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. She 
dines at the best cafes in New York and one meal costs her more 
than you make in a day. Do you imagine for a moment that she's 
going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time? 

John. I intend to give them to her. 

Will. On thirty dollars a week? 

John. I propose to go out and make a lot of money. 

Will. How? 

John. I've not decided, but you can bet your sweet life that if 
I ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be. 

Will. Never have made it, have you? 

John. I have never tried. 

Wilt Then how do you know you can? 

John. Well, I've got twice as much brains as you have, and I'm 
honest and energetic ; if you can cheat people out of great wealth 
I don't see why I can't earn a little. 

Will. There's where you make a mistake. Money getting doesn't 
always come with brilliancy. I know a lot of fellows in New York 
who can paint a great picture, write a good play, and when it comes 
to oratory, they've got me lashed to a pole, but they're always in 
debt. They never get anything for what they do. In other words, 
young man, they are like a sky rocket without a stick, plenty of 
brilliancy, but no direction and they blow up and fizzle all over the 
ground. 

John. That's New York. I'm in Colorado and don't you forget it. 

Will. 1 hope you'll make your money because I tell you frankly 
that's the only way you can hold this girl. A woman of the type 
of Laura lives on her vanity. She's full of heroics now, self-sacrifice 
and all the things that go tO' make up the third act of a play, but 
the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own 
handkerchiefs and dry them on the window and send out for a pail 
of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it for me it will go Blah ! 
You're in Colorado writing her letters once a day with no checks 
in them. That may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the 
joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one, who for 
ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do, is 
not going to let up for any great length of time. So take my tip, 
if you want tO' hold her, get that money quick, and don't be so 
damned particular how you get it. 

[John's patience is evidently severely tried. He approaches 

27 



Will zdw remains impassive.] 
John. Of course, you know you've got the best of me. 
IVilL How? 
John. We're guests. 
IV ill. No one's listening. 

John. Tisn't that. If it was anyw^here but here, right within the 
call of the woman you've insulted — if there was any way to avoid 
all the nasty scandal — I'd punch you in the jaw and you know it. 
I don't know how you make your money, but I know what you do 
with it. You buy yourself a small circle of parasites and syco- 
phants — you pay them well for feeding your vanity — and then you 
pose — pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation 
and those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood — Man- 
hood? And you dogging the heels of unfortunate women with your 
money. Why, you don't know what the first syllable means, let 
alone the last. It's cowafrdice — the cowardice of a pup and a cur. 

Will. [Rising angrily. Wait a minute, young man, or I'll 

[Both men stand confronting each other for a moment 
zvith fists clinched. They are on the very verge of a 
personal encounter. The chatter of the card players 
can be heard front the next room. Both seem to recd- 
i.ze that they have gone too far.] 
John. You'll what? 

Will. Lose my temper and make a fool of myself. That's some- 
thing I've not done for — let me see — why^ it must be nearly twenty 
years — Oh, yes, fully that. , 

[He smiles; John relaxes and takes one step hack.] 
John. Possibly it's been about that length of time since you were 
human, eh? 

Will. Possibly — but you see, Mr. Madison, after all you're at 

fault. The very first thing you did was to lose your temper. Now, 

people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, 

and you admit that that is a great necessity — I mean now — to you. 

John. I can't stand for the brutal way you talk. 

[Will sits down and pauses for a moment. John looks 
at him in the fading light and also takes his chair. 
Will takes up the discussion in the most matter-of- 
fact tone.] 

Will. But you have got to stand it. The truth is never gentle. 
That's the pretention of the truth that brushes down the ruffled 
feathers. Most conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want 
to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point 
of view. That's the only way you can fight them and win. 

John. Still, I believe Laura means what she says. I feel certain 
of that, and I believe in her despite all you say and the disagreeable 

i8 



logic of it. I think she loves me. If she should ever want to go 
back to the old way of getting along, I think she'd tell me so. She'd 
never do anything to wreck my life. So you see, Brockton, all your 
talk is wasted. I love her and I believe in her and we'll drop the 
subject. 

Will. And if she ever should come to me, I am going to insist 
that she let you know all about it. It'll be hard enough to lose her, 
caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be 
double crossed. 

John. [Sarcastically.] That's very kind. Thanks! 

Wilt Don't get sore. It's common sense and it goes, does it 
not? 

John. Just what? 

Will. If she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes 
to me I'll make her let you know just when and why. 

John. All right. 

Will. Agreed? [A pause. 

John. You're on. 

[By this time the stage is black and all that can he seen 
is the glow of the two cigars. As the murmur of the 
voices of the card players in the next room is heard, 
the curtain comes down slowly.] 



29 



ACT II. 

Scene. Six vwiiths have elapsed. The furnished room of Laura 
MuRDOCK, second story back of an ordinary, cheap theatrical 
lodging house in the theatre district of New York. The room 
is of :the old-fasJiioned hroivn stone front house type ivith d 
high ceiling, dingy zifolls and long, rather insecure unndozvs. 
The woodiijork is depressingly dark, the stain is cracked and 
the paper is old, spotted and uninviting. There is a door up R 
leading to the hallway and up C is a folding bed. To the R 
of that in the upper left hand corner of the stage is a dresser. 
On this dresser is a smail alcohol lamp such as is used for' 
curling irons and all other necessary toilet articles. There is a 
door down L leading to u closet, and next to that is a zvash- 
stand with the usual paraphernalia of white crockery. A sofa 
or rather dilapidated tete-a-tete is down stage L C. There 
We several chairs, a table and a dilapidated desk, which is 
dozim R near the door. The fixtures are old and supposed to 
burn gas instead of electricity. In the most appropriate places 
and zvith a rather smart zvomans efficiency of distribution are 
photographs here and there, an occasional pennant of some col- 
lege, attractive posters, so that in this simple and primitive 
manner it can be seen that the room is given a more cheerful 
appearance. 

At Rise. At rise of .curtain the stage is empty. Laura enters R. 
She is in furs and a rather fetching gown, but the whoile gives 
one the impression of having been of the season's before' 
vintage. Her beauty is still untouched, and as she enters she 
crosses and goes to closet, where she takes off her coat and hat 
and gloves. She discovers in one glove a tear, and going to the 
dresser gets needles and thread, sits dozmi and takes a couple 
of stitches in it. She surveys herself in the mirror and critically 
looks at her dress. The suggestion to 'be conveyed is that 
things that she has are raiher in- a zvorn condition. This task\ 
completed, she stands looking meditotiz'cly out of the zi'indozv. 
There is everything about her appearance and actions that 
denotes deep concern. SJie crosses to the desk, and reaching 
into a cubby-hole pulls out a large package of letters. She runs 
over them thoroughly, takes one from the bottom, opens it, 
starts to read it and then it drops listlessly into her lap. Her 
depression is obvious. She folds the letter and returns it to the 
envelope and is deeply engrossed in thought. Someone is^ 
heard rather laboriously and noisily climbing the stairway. 
There is a knock. 
Laura. Come in. 

30 



[Annie, a chocolate-colored ncgrcss enters. She is slovenly 
in appearance, ibmt must not in any imy denote the 
Mammy. She is the type one encounters in cheap'' 
theatrical lodpinz houses. She has a letter in her hand 
and approaches Laura.) 
Annie. Here's your mail. Miss Laura. 
Lanra. [Taking letter.] Thank you ! 

[She looks at the address and does not open it.'\ 
Annie. Dat one comes every morning. I just thought I would 
bring it up to you. 
Laura. Thank you ! 

Annie. Must be mighty smart to write you every day. The post- 
man brings it ii o'clock most always, sometimes 12, and again some- 
times 10, but it coilies every day, don't it? 
Laura. I know. 

Annie. Guess must be from your husband, ain't it? 
Laura. No. I haven't any. 

Annie. Dat's what I tole Mrs. Farley when she was down talkin' 
about you dis morning. She said if he all was yo' husban' he might 
do somethin' to help you out. I told her I didn't think you had 
any husband. Den she says you ought to have one, you're so beauti- 
fuL Mrs. Farley said you might have most any man you wanted 
just for de asking, but I said you was too particular about the 
man you'd want. Den she did a heap o' talking. 
Laura. About what? 

Annie. Well, you know, Mrs. Farley she's been havin' so much 
trouble with her roomers. Yesterdav that young lady on the second 
floor front she left. She's goin' with some company on the road. She 
owed her room for three weeks and just had to leave her trunk. 
My ! how Mrs. Farley did scold her. Mrs. Farley let on she could 
have paid that money if she wanted to, but somehow I guess she 
couldn't, for if she could she wouldn't have left her trunk, would 
she, A'liss Laura? 

Laura. No, I suppose not. What did Mrs. Farley say about me? 
Annie. Oh ! nothing much. 
Laura. Well, what? 

Annie. She kind a say somethin' you being two weeks behind in 
yo' room rent and she said she thought you might get the money for 
her because you had such stylish friends come to see you. 
Lanra. Who, for instance? 

Annie. Well, dat Miss St. Clair, I guess. Mrs. Farley said she 
had an awful lot of money and like as not could help you out some. 
[Pause.'] Ain't you got nobody to look after you, Miss Laura? 
Laura. No. 

Annie. Dat's too bad. 

31 



Laura. Why? 

Annie. Dat telephone man come here this morning and because 
Mrs. Farley couldn't pay him he took the telephone out and she 
said if she didn't get somebody in her house who had regular money 
soon she would just have to close up and go to the poor house. 

Laura. Vm sorry ; I'll try again to-day. 

Annie. Ain't you got any job at all? 

Laura. No. 

Annie. When you came here you had lots of money and you was 
mighty good to me, but I guess nobody got jobs now. They're 
vSO many actors and actoresses out of work, Mrs. Farley says, she 
don't know how she's going to live. She said you'd been migthy nice 
up until two weeks ago, but you ain't got much left, have you, Miss 
Laura ? 

Lauria. \ Rising and going to the windozv.] No. It's all gone. 

Annie. My sakes ! All dem rings and things ? You ain't done 
sold them? 

Laura. They're pawned. What did Miss Farley say she was going 
to do? 

Annie. Guess maybe I'd better not tell. 

Laura. Please do. 

Annie. You been so nice to me, Miss Laura. Never was anybody 
in dis house give me so much, and when Miss Farley said you must 
either pay yo' rent or she would ask you for your room, I jest set 
right down on the back kitchen stairs and cried. Besides, Mrs. Far- 
ley don't like me very well since you've been havin' your breakfasts 
and dinner brought up here. 

Laura. Why not? 

Annie. She has a rule in this house that nobody can use her china 
or forks or spoons who ain't boarding here, and the other day when 
you asked me to bring up a knife and fork she ketched me coming 
upstairs and she says where you goin' wid all dose things, Annie? 
I said, I'm just going up to Miss 'Laura's room with that knife and 
fork? I sayd, I'm goin up for nothin' at all, Mrs. Farley, she just 
wants to look at them I guess. She said she wants to eat her supper 
up' there. I got real mad, and I told her if she'd give me the three 
weeks she owed me I'd brush right out of here, dat's all. I'm get- 
tin' sick of this job anyway. I wish she'd g^ve me my pay — it's 
three weeks now. 

Laura. I'm sorry, Annie, if I've caused you any trouble. Never 
mind, I'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day anyway. 
\She goes to her purse, fumbles in it, takes out a qua\rter and turns 
to Annie.'] Here. 

Anntie. No ma'm, I don't want that. 

Laura. Please take it. 

32 



Annie. No ma'm, I don't want it. You need that. Dat's break- 
fast money for you, Miss Laura. 

Laura. Please take it Annie. I might just as well get rid of this 
as anything else. 

Annie. [Takes it rather reluctantly. \ You always was so good, 
Miss Laura. Sure you don't want dis? 
Laura. Sure. 

Annie. Sure you're goin' to g^t plenty more? 
Laura. Sure. 

Mrs. Farley's voice. [Downstairs.'] Annie ! Annie ! 
Annie [Going to door.] Yassum, Mrs. Farley. 
Same Voice. Is Miss Murdock up there? 
Annie. Yassum, Mrs. Farley, yassum ! 
Mrs. F. Anything doin'? 

Annie [At door.] I — I — hain't asked. Missy Farlev. 
Mrs. F. Then do it. 

Laura. [Coming to the rcscite at the door.] [To Annie.] I'll 
answer her. [Out of door to Mrs. Farley.] What is it, Mrs. Farley? 
Mrs. Farley. [Her voice softened.] Did ye have any luck this 
morning? 

Laura. No, but I promise you faithfully to help you out this 
afternoon or to-morrow, 

Mrs. F. Sure? Are you certain? 
Laura. Absolutely. 

Mrs. F. Well I must say 

[Laura quietly closes the door and Mrs. F's rather strident 

voice is heard indistinctly. Laura sighs and zvalks 

toward the zvindow. Annie looks after her and then 

slowly opens the door.] 

Annie. Yo' sure there ain't nothin' I can do fo' you, Miss Laura? 

Laura. Nothing. 

[Annie exits. Laura sits down and looks at letter, 
turning it around in her hand and then slozuly open- 
ing it. It consists of several pages closely written. She 
reads some of them hurriedly, skims through the rest 
and then turns to the last page, vuithout readings 
glmices at it, folds it, rises and carelessly throws it on 
the desk.] 

Laura. Hope, just nothing but hope. 

[Her despondency is palpable, and she aguin goes to the 
window, aimlessly looking out on the snow-covered 
roofs of the houses. There is a timid knock at the 
door.] 

Laura. [Without turning, and in a rather tired tone of voice.]', 
Come in. 

33 



[Jim Weston, a rather shabby theatrical advance agent of 
the old school, enters timidly, halting at the door and 
holding the knob in his hand. He is a man of about 
40 years oldy dressed in an ordinary manner, rather of 
jnedium height y and in fact has the appearance of a 
rather prosperous clerk who has been in hard luck. 
His relations zmth Laura are those of pure friendship. 
They both live in the same lodging place, and both- 
having been out of employment, they have naturally 
become acquainted.^ 
Jim. Can I come in? 
Laura. [Without turning.'] Hello, Jim. 

[He closes door and enters, taking chair down right.^ 
Laura. Any luck? 
Jim. Lots of it. 
I^aura. That's good. Tell me. 
Jim. It's bad kick. Guess you don't want to hear. 
Laura. I'm sorry. Where have you been? 

[She turns and busies herself around the room.] 
Jim. I kind o' felt around up at Burg-ess' office. I thought I 
might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. Some- 
how those fellows always do business to-morrow. 
Laura. Yes. and there's always to-day to look after. 
Jim. I'm ready to give up. I've tramped Broadway for nine weeks 
until every piece of flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my 
feet coming. Got a letter from the Missis this morning. The kids 
got to have some clothes, and she's hard up for shoes and stuff like 
that. I've just g;ot to raise some money or get some work, or the 
first thing you know I'll be hanging around Central Park on a 
dark night with a club. 

Laura. I know just how you feel. It's pretty tough for me, 
but it must be a whole lot worse for you with a wife and ckild. 
Jim. Oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along, turn his 

hand to anything, but a woman 

Laura. Worse, you think? 

Jim. I was just thinking about you and what Burgess said? 
Laura. What was that? 

Jim. You know Burgess and I used to be in the circus business 
together. He took care of the grafters when I was boss canvas 
man. I never could see any good in shaking down the Rubes for 
all the money they had and then taking part of it. He used to run 
the privilege car, you know. 

Laura. That so? 

Jim. Had charge of all the pickpockets — dips we called 'em — 
sure thing gamblers and the like. Made him rich. I kept sort o' 

34 



on the level and I'm broke. Guess it don't pay to be honest 

[Laufa turns to him and in a significant voice:'] 

Laura. You don't really think that? 

Jim. No, maybe not. Ever since I married the missis and the 
first kid come we figured the only good money was the kind folks 
worked for and earned — but when you can't get hold of that it's 
tough. 

Laura. I know. 

Jim. Burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he's 
turned. He's happy and prosperous, but I guess he ain't any better 
now than he was then. 

Laura. Maybe not. I've been trying to get an engagement from 
him. There are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that I 
could do, but he has never said "no" absolutely, but somehow he's 
never said ''yes." 

Jim. He spoke about you. 
..Laura. In what way? 

Jim. I gave him my address and he seen it was yours, too. Asked 
if I lived in the same place. 

Laura. Was that all? 

Jim. Wanted to know how you was getting on. I let him know 
you needed work, but I didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. He 
said something about you being a damned fool. 

Laura. [Suddenly and interested.] How? 

Jim. Well, Johnny Ensworth, you know he used to do the fights 
on the Evening Journal. Now he's press agent for Burgess. Nice 
fellow and way on the inside. He told me where you were in 
wrong. 

Laura. What have I done? 

Jim. Burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical 
comedies he trails. Of course he's got a lot of influence, and he's 
always Johnny-on-the-Spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. 
There are four or five rich men in town that are there with the bank 
roll providing he engages women outside the stars who ain't so 
very particular about the location of their residence when they're 
not on the stage, and who don't hear a curfew ring at 11.30 every 
night. 

Laura. And he thinks I am too particular? 

Jim. That's what was slipped me. Seems that one of the richest 
men that is in on Mr. Burgess' address book is a fellow named; 
Brockton from down town some place. He's got more money than 
the Shoe and Leather National Bank. He likes to play show 
business. 

Laura. [Rises quickly.] Oh! 

Jim. I thought you knew him. I thought it was just as well to 

35 



tell you where he and Burgess stand. They're pals. 

Laura. [Coming over to Jim and with emphasis. \ I don't want 
you to talk about him or any of them. I just want you to know that 
I'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season 
without any more trouble. I've pawned everything I've got, even 
some of my clothes. I've cut every friend I knew. There's only 
one girl that I allow to come to see me, but where am I going to 
end? That's what I want to know — where am I going to endrf 
Every place I look for a position something interferes. It's almost 
as if I were blacklisted. I know I could get jobs all right if I 
wanted to pay the price, but I won't. I just want to tell you I 
won't. 

Jim. That's the way to talk. I don't know you very well, but 
I've watched you close. I ain't never done a crooked act in my life. 
I'm just a common ordinary showman who never had much money, 
and I'm going out o' date. I've spent most of my time with nigger 
minstrel shows and circuses, but I've been on the square. That's 
why I'm, broke. [Rather sadly. \ Once I thought the Missis would 
have to go back to toe dancing, but she couldn't do that, she's 
grown so damn fat. [To Laura, cheerfully.^ Just you don't mind. 
It'll all come out right. 

Laura. [Goes over to him.] It's an awful tough game, isn't it? 

Jim. [Taking her haMd.} It's hell forty ways from the Jack. 
It's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools 
jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, 
it must be something awful. I ain't blaming the women. They 
say "self-preservation was the first law of nature," and I guess 
that's right, but sometimes when the show is over and I see them 
fellows with their hair parted on one side, smoking cigarettes in 
a holder long enough to reach from here to Harlem, and a bank 
roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, I feel like as 
if I'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town — 
yes I do — you bet. 

Laura. That wouldn't pay, would it? 

Jim. No, they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in 
Sing Sing, but all them fellows under 19 and over 59 ain't much 
use to themselves or anyone else They never produce anything 
but trouble and somebody else's coin, and they don't always produce 
that! 

Laura. [Rather meditatively.] Perhaps all of them are not 
so bad. 

Jim. Yes, they are. Angels and all. Last season I had one of 
them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. 
We lost money and got stuck down in Texas. I telegraphed 
''Must have a thousand or can't move." He just answered, *'Don't 

36 



move" — we didn't. 

Laura. But that was business. 

Jim. Bad business. It took a year for some of them folks to 
get back to Broadway. Some of the girls never did, and I guess 
never will 

Laura. Maybe they're better off, Jim. 

Jim. Couldn't be worse. [There is a moment of gloomy silence. 1^ 
[To himself.] Wish I knew how to do something else. Being 
a mechanic or a carpenter or something like that — those fellows 
always have jobs. 

L\afura. So do I. But we don't know and we've got to make the 
best of it. 

Jim. I guess so. [Opens door a little.] I'll see you this evening. 
I hope you'll have good news by that time. 

Laura. Good bye. 

[Bus. Jim starts to exit, starts to close door behind him, 
then retreats a step with hand on door knob.] 

Jim. [In a voice meant to be kindly.] If you'd like to go to the 
theatre to-night and take some other woman in the house, maybe 
I can get a couple of tickets for some of the shows. I know a lot 
of fellows who are working. 

Laura. No, thanks. I haven't anything to wear to the theatre, 
and I don't 

Jim. [Rising, and with a smile going over to her and taking her 
hand.] Now you just cheer up! Something's sure to turn up. 
It always has for me, and I'm a lot older than you both in years 
and in this business. There's always a break in hard luck some- 
times — that's sure. 

Laura. [Smiling through her tears.] I hope so. But things 
are looking pretty hopeless now. don't they? 

Jim. I'll go down and give Mrs. F. a line o' talk and try to 
square you for a couple of days more anyway. But I guess she's 
laying pretty close to the cushion, poor woman. 

Laura. Annie says a lot of people owe her. 

Jim^. You can't pay what you haven't got. And even if money 
was growing on trees, it's winter now. [Jim goes tozvards door.] 
I'm off, maybe to-day is lucky day. [He starts towards door and 
stops.] So long! 

Laura. Goodbye. [Jim exits. 

[Laura stands still for a moment in deep thought. Sh& 

goes to the desk, picks up the letter received as if to 

read it, and then throws it dozvn in anger — she sits on 

tete and buries her head in hamds. 

Laura. I can't stand it — I just simply can't stand it. 

Mrs. Farley's voice. [Off stage.] Miss Murdock — Miss Mur- 

37 



dock. 

Laura. [Rises, goes to door R. and opens it.~\ What is it? 
Same Voice. There's a lady down here to see you. 
EWe's Voice. [Oif sta\ge.'\ Hello, dearie, can I come up? 
Laura. Is that you, Elfie? 
ElUe. Yes, shall I come up? 
Laura. Why certainly. 

\She waits at the door for a moment and Elfie St. 
Clair appeairs. She is gorgeously gowned in the* 
rather extreme style affected by the usual Nezv York 
woman who is cared for by a gentleman of zvcalth 
and who has not gone through the formality of matri- 
monial alliance. Her conduct is always exaggerated 
and her attitude vigorous. Her gown is of the latest 
design, and in every detail of dress she knows ezn- 
dence of a most extravagant expenditure. She carries 
a handbag of gold, upon zMch arc attached such trifles 
as a gold cigarette case, a gold powder box, pencils, 
and such things. Elfie throws her arms around 
Laura and both exchanges kisses.^ 
Elfie. Laura, you old dear, I've just found out where you've been 
hiding", and came around to see you. 

Laura. [Who is much brightened by Elfie^s appearance.'] Elfie, 
you're lookin^s:' bully ; how are you, dear ? Come in and sit down. 

I haven't much to offer, but 

Elfie. Oh, never mind, it's such a grand day outside, and I've 
come around in my car to take you out. You know I"ve got a new 
one, and it can go some. 

Lfiura. [Changing her expression.] I am sorry but I can't go 
out this afternoon, Elfie. 
Eliie. What's the matter? 

Laura. You see I'm staying home a good deal nowadays, I 
haven't been feeling very well and I don't go out much. 

Eliie. [Sitting dozvn on the tete-a-tete.'] I should think not, 
I haven't seen you in Rector's or Martin's since you came back 
from Denver. Got a glimpse of you one day trailing up Broadway, 
but couldn't get to you, you dived into some office or other. [For 
the first time she surveys the room.] Whatever made you come 
into a dump like this? It's the limit. 

Laura. [Turning on her friend and standing back of the table.] 
Oh. I know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and a home's a home. 

Elfie. [Loim'i^ng on the tete-a-tete and lifting her skirts far- 
enough to display her neat foot covering and hosiery.] Looks 
more like a prison. Makes me think of the old days of Child's 
sinkers and a hall bed-room. 

38 



Laura. It's comfortable. 

ElHe. Not! What's the matter with you anyway? 

Laura. Nothing. 

Elfie. Yes, there is. What happened between you and Brockton? 
He's not broke, because I saw him the other day. 

Laura. Where ? 

El/ie. In the park. Asked me out to luncheon, but I couldn't go. 
You know, dearie, I've got to be so careful. Jerry's so awful 
jealous — the old fool. 

Laura. Do you see much of him now, Elfie? 

Elfie. Not any more than I can help and be nice. He gets on my 
nerves. Of course I've heard all about you. 

Laura. Then why do you ask? 

Elfie. Just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the 
trouble was. Now tell me all about it. Can I smoke here? 

[Takes cigarette and lights. 

Laura. Yes. 

ElUe. Have one? [Offers case. 

Laura. No, thank you. 

Elfie. [Making herself comforable.'] Now go ahead. Tell me 
all the scandal. I'm just crazy to know. 

Laura. [Going over and sitting in a chair.^ There's nothing to 
tell, I haven't been able to find work, that is all, and I'm short of 
money. You can't live in hotels, you know, with cabs and all that 
sort of thing, when you're not working. 

ElHe. Yes you can. I haven't worked in a year. 

Laura. But you don't understand, dear, I — I — well you know I — 
well you know, I can't say what I want. 

Elfie. Oh, yes you can, we've been pals. I know you got along 
a little faster in the business than I did. The chorus was my limit, 
and you went into the legitimate thing. We lived just the same, 
though. I didn't suppose there was any secret between you and 
me about that. 

Laura. Elfie, I know there wasn't, but I tell you I'm different 
now, I don't want to do that sort of thing, and I've been very un- 
lucky. This has been a terribly hard season for me. I simply 
haven't been able to get an engagement. 

Elfie. Well, you can't get on this way. Won't Brockton help 
you out ! 

Laura. What's the use of talking to you, Elfie, you don't under- 
stand. [Gets up and goes up stage looking out of window. 

Elfie. [Pu-ffing deliberately on cigarette and crossing her legs in 
almost a masculine attitude.] Why don't I understand? 

Laura. Because you can't, you've never felt as I have. 

Elfie. How do you know? 

39 



Laura. [Turning impatiently.^ Oh, what's the use of explaining-? 

Eliie. You know, Laura, Tm not much on giving- advice, but you 
make me sick. I thought you'd grown wise, a young girl just 
butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, 
but when you've reached our age you ought to be on to the game 
and make the best of it. 

Laura. [Going over to her angrily. '\ If you come up here, Elfie, 
to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. I was West this 
summer — I met some one — some one who did me a whole lot of 
good — some one who opened my eyes to a different way of going 
along — some one who — oh well, what's the use — you don't know. 

Eliie. I don't know, don't I? I don't know, I suppose I came to 
this town from' up state, a little burgh named Oswego, and joined 
a chorus that I didn't fall in love with just such a man. I suppose 
I don't know that then I was the best looking girl in New York, 
and everybody talked about me — I suppose I don't know that there 
were men, all ages and with all kinds of money ready to give me 
ajnything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper, and I 
didn't do it, did I? I stuck by this good man, who was to lead me 
in a good way toward a good life, for three years, and I was get- 
ting older all the time, never quite so pretty one day as I had been 
the day before, and I never knew then what it was to be tinkered 
with by a hairdresser aind a manicure, or a hundred and one of 
those other people who help you look pretty. I didn't have to have 
them then. Well, you know, Laura, what happened. 

Laura. Wasn't it partly your fault, Elfie? 

Eliie. Was it my fault that time made me older and I took on 
a lot of flesh? Was it my fault? Was it my fault that the work 
and the life took out the color and left the make up? Was it my 
fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as I'd come, and 
were chased after just as I was? Was it my fault the cabs weren't 
waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty I was? 
Was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no 
one else wanted me he got tired and threw me flat — cold flat — and 
I'd been dead on the level with him. [With almost a sob.] It almost 
broke my heart. Then I made up my mind to get even and get all 
I could out of the game. Jerry came along. He was a has-been 
and I was on the road that way. He wanted to be good to me and 
I let him. That's all. 

Laura. I don't see how you can live that way. 

Eliie. You did and you didn't kick. 

Laura. But it's different now with me. You'd be the same way 
if you were in my place. 

Eliie. No. I've had all the romance I want, and I'll stake you to 
all your love affairs. I am out to gather in as much coin as I 

40 



can in m-y own way, so when the old rainy day comes along I'll 
have a little change for an umbrella. 

Laura. [Rising and angry.] What did you come here for? Why 
can't you leave me alone when I'm trying to get along. 

Elfie. Because I want to help you. 

Laura. You can't help me. I'm all right — I tell you I am — what 
do you care anyway 

Elfie. But I do care. I know how you feel with an old cat for a 
landlady and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap 
burlesque people. Why the room's cold, and there's no hot water, 
and you're beginning to look shabby. You haven't got a job, 
chances are you won't have one. What does this fellow out there 
do for youi^ Send you long letters of condolence? That's what 
I used to get. When I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a 
silk petticoat, he told me how much he loved me, so I had the 
other ones resoled and turned the old petticoat, and look at you, 
you're beginning to show it. [She surveys her carefully.] I do 
believe there are lines coming in your face, and you hide in the 
house because you've nothing new to wear. 

Laura. But I've got what you haven't got. I may have to hide 
my clothes, but I don't have to hide my face. And you with that 
man — he's old enough to be your father — a toddling dote hanging 
on your apron strings. I don't see how you dare show your face 
to a decent woman. 

EWe. You don't — ^but you did once and I never caught you 
hanging your head. You say he's old — I know he's old — but he's 
good to me. He's making what's left of my life pleasant and he 
don't worry me. You think I like him — I don't — sometimes I hate 
him, but he understands and you can bet your life his check is in my 
mail bag everv Saturday night or there's a new lock on the door 
Sunday morning. 

Laura. How can you say such things to me? 

El£e. Because I want you to be square with yourself. You've 
lost all that precious virtue women gad about. When you've got 
the name, I say get the game. 

Laura. You can go now, Elfie. Don't come back. 

EMe. [Rising.] All right, if that's the way you want it to be, 
Vm sorry. [A knock on the door. 

Laura. [Controlling herself after a moment's hesitation.^ 
Come in. 

[Annie enters with a note, crosses and hands it to Laura.] 

Annie. Mrs. Farley sent this. Miss Laura. 

[Laura takes the note and reads it. She is palpably an- 
noyed.^ 

Laura. There's no answer. 

41 



Annie. She tol' me not to leave until I got an answer. 

Laura. You must ask her to wait, 

Annie. She wants an answer. 

Laura. Tell her I'll be right down — that it will be all right. 

Annie. Yessum. [^Exits. 

Laura. [Hdilf to herself and half to Elfie.] She's: taking ad- 
vantage of your being here. 

Elfie. How ? 

Laura. She wants money — three weeks' room rent. I presume 
she thought vou'd give it to me. 

ElUe. Huh! 

Laura. Elfie, I've been a little cross ; I didn't mean it. 

ElUe. Well? 

Laura. Could — could you lend me thirty-five dollars until I get 
to work? 

ElUe. Me? 

Laura. Yes. 

ElUe. Lend you thirty-five dollars? 

Laura. Yes — just until I get to work. 

Elfie. So that's the kind of woman you are, eh? A moment ago 
you were to going to kick me out of the place because I wasn't decent 
enough to associate with you. You know how I live. You know 
how I get my money — the same way you got most of yours. And 
now that you've got this spasm of goodness I'm not fit to be in 
your room ; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. You'll 
let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit while you 
try to play the grand lady. I've got your number now, Laura, 
where in hell is your virtue anyway, and as far as I'm con- 
cterned, you can go to the devil rich, poor or any other way. 
I'm off! 

[Elfie rushes toward door; for a moment Laura stands 
speechless, then hursts into hysterics.^ 

Laura. Elfie ! Elfie ! Don't go now. Don't leave me now ! I 
can't stand it. I can't be ajone. Don't go, please; don't go. 

[Laura falls into ElHe's atrms sobbing. In a moment El- 
fie's zvhole demeanor changes and she melts into the 
tenderest womanly sympathy trying her best to ex- 
press herself in her crude way.) 

E^iie. There, old girl, don't cry, don't cry. You just sit down 
here and put your arms around me ; I'm awful sorry. On the 
level I am. I shouldn't have said it. I know that. But I've got 
feelings too, even if folks don't give me credit for it. 

Lc^ra. I know, Elfie. I've gone through about all I can stand. 

ElHe. Well, I should say you have — and more than I would. 
Anyway a good cry never hurts any woman. I have one myself, 

42 



sometimes — under cover. 

Laura. [More seriously, recovering herself J] Perhaps what you 
said was true. 

ElUe. We won't talk about it. 

Laura. [With persistence.] But perhaps it was true, and, 
Elfie 

EWe. Yes. 

Laura. I think I've stood this just as long as I can. Every day 
is a living horror. 

ElHe. It's the limit. 

Laura. I've got to have money to pay the rent. I've pawned 
everything I have that is worth a cent, except the clothes to keep 
me warm. 

El£e. I'll give you all the money you need, dearie. Don't you 
care if I've got sore and — and lost my head. 

Laura. No. I can't let you do that. You may have been mad — 
awfully mad, but what you said was the truth — I can't take your 
money. 

Elfie. Oh, forget that. 

Laura. Maybe — maybe if he knew all about it — the suffering — 
he wouldn't blame me. 

Eliie. Who — ^the good man who wanted to lead you to the good 
life without even a bread basket for an advance agent. Huh ! 

Laura. Still he doesn't know how desperately poor I am. 

EMe. He knows you're out of work, don't he? 

Laura. Yes. 

Elfie. And that nothing's coming in, and all going out 

Laura. Yes. 

Elfie. Has he sent you anything? 

Laura. He hasn't anything to send. 

Elfie. Well, what does he think you're going to live on. Asphalt 
croquettes with conversation sauce? 

Lkmra. I don't know. 

Elfie. Don't be a fool, dearie. You know there is somebody 
waiting for you — somebody who'll be good to you and get you out 
of this mess. 

Laura. You mean Will Brockton? 

Elfie. Yes. 

Laura. Do you know where he is ? 

Elfie. Yes. 

Laura. Will? 

Elfie. You won't get sore if I tell you? 

Laura. No, why. 

Elfie. He's down stairs — waiting in the car. I promised to tell 
him what you said. 

4^ 



Laura. Then it was all planned and — and 

Elfie. Now, dearie, I knew you were up against it, and I wanted 
to bring you together. He's got half of the Burgess shows and 
if you'll only see him everything will be fixed. 
Laura. When does he want to see me? 
Elfie. Now. 
Laura. Here? 

Elfie. Yes. Shall I tell him to come up? 
Laura. \ After a long pause.] Yes. 

Elfic. \Suddcnly becomes aiiinKried.l Now you're a sensible dear, 
ril bet he's hajf frozen down there. [Goes to door.] I'll send him 
up, and wash your eyes, dearie. [Goes to ent.^ Say, listen, dearie, 
tell him he'll have to blow us all to dinner at Rector's — understand 
— seven thirty — I'll be there, so long. [She exits. 

[There is a moincnfs umt, and Laura then busies herself 
ztnth her personal appearance. Before the mirror she 
fixes her hair, applies the poivder rag and then, her ap- 
pearance ez'idently satisfying her, she takes a seat and 
azvaits Brockton's arrival. His heavy step is heard 
upon the stainvay and then his knock.] 
Laura. Come in. 

[Brockton enters. His dress is that of a man of husi- 
n\ess; the time being about November. He is zvelt 
groomed and brings zmth him the impression of easy 
luxury.'] 
Brockton. [As he enters.] Hello, Laura. 

[There is an obznous embarrassment on the part of each 
of them. She rises, goes to him and extends her 
hand.] 

Laura. I'm — I'm glad to see you, Will. 
Brockton. Thank you. 
Laura. Won't you sit down? 

Brockton. [Regaining his ease of manner.] Thank you, asrain. 

[Both are seated. 
Laura. It's rather cold out. isn't it? 
Brockton. Just a bit sharp. 
Laura. You came with Elfie in the car? 
Brockton. She picked me up at Martin's; we lunched there. 
Laura. By appointment? 
Brockton. I'd asked her. 
Laura. Well]' 
Brockton. Well, Laura. 
Laura. She told you? 

Brockton. Not a great deal. What do you want to tell me? 
Laura. [Very simply and averting his glance.] I'm ready to 

44 



come back, Will. 

Brockton. [With an effort concealing his sense of triumph and 
satisfaction.] I'm mighty glad of that, Laura. I've missed you like 
the very devil. 

Laura. Do we — do we have to talk it over much? 

Brockton. Kot at all unless you want to. I understand — in fact I 
always have, 

Laura. [Wearily.'] Yes, I guess you always did. I didn't. 

Brockton. It will be just the same as it was before, you know. 

Laura. Yes. 

Brockton. I didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone 
the way I have you. I've been lonely. 

Laura. That's nice in you to say that. 

Brockton. You'll have to move out of here right away. This place 
is enough to give one the colly wabbles. If you'll be ready to- 
morrow I'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage. 

Laura. To-morrow will be all right, thank you. 

Brockton. And you'll need some money in the meantime. I'll 
leave this here. 

[He takes a roll of bills and places it on the desk.] 

Laura. You seem to have come prepared. Did Elfie and you plan 
this all out? 

Brockton. Not planned — just hoped. I think you'd better go to 
some nice hotel now. Later we can arrange. 

Laura. Will, we'll always be frank. I said I was ready to go. 
It's up to you — when and where? 

Brockton. The hotel scheme is the best, but Laura 

Laura. Yes? 

Brockton. You're quite sure this is in earnest. You don't want to 
change? You've time enough now. 

Laura. I've quite made up my mind. It's final. 

Brockton. If you want to work, Burgess has a nice part for you. 
I'll telephone and arrange if you say so. 

Laura. Thanks. Say I'll see him in the morning. 

Brockton. And, Laura, you know when we were in Denver, and — 

Laura. Please, please, don't speak of it. 

Brockton. I'm sorry, but I've got to. I told Madison. \Laura 
turns her head.] Pardon me, but I must do this — that if this time 
evei^ came I'd have you write him the truth. Before we go any; 
further I'd like you to do that now. 

Laura. Say good-bye? 

Brockton. Just that. 

Laura. I wouldn't know how to begin. 

Brockton. You mean you wouldn't know what to say? 

Laura. It will hurt him awfully deeply. 

45 



Brockton. It'll be worse if you don't. He'll like you for telling 
him. It would be honest, and that is what he expects. 

Laura. Must I — now? 

Brockton. I think you should. 

Laura. [Goes to desk and sits down.^^ How shall I begin, Will? 

Brockton. Shall I dictate it? 

Laura. Will, I'll do just what you say. You're the one to tell me 
— now. 

Brockton. Address it the way you want to. [She complies.'] I'm 
going to be pretty brutal. In the long run I think that is best, don't 
you? 

Laura. Go ahead. 

Brockton. Ready? 
. .Laura. Yes. 

Brockton. [Dictating.] All I have to say can be expressed in one 
word, ''good-bye." I shall not tell you where I've gone, but re- 
mind you of what Brockton told you the last time he saw you. He 
is here now, dictating this letter. What I am doing is voluntary — 
my own suggestion. Don't grieve. Be happy, successful and 
live long. Sign it Laura. [She complies.'] Address it and seal it. 
[She complies.] Shall I mail it? 

Laura. No. If you don't mind I'd sooner. It's a sort of a last — 
last message. 

Brockton. [Rising.'] All right. You're a little upset now and I'm 
going. We are all to dine at 7 to-night at Delmonico's. There'll 
be a party. Of course you'll come. 

Laiira. I don't think I can. You see 

Brockton. I know. I guess there's enough there [indicating 
money] for your immediate needs. Later you can straighten things 
up. Shall I send the car at 6:30? 

Laura. Yes, please. 

Brockton. [Going toward door.] Good. It will be the first good 
evening I've had in a long, long time. [At door.] You'll be ready? 

Laura. Yes. 

Brockton. Au revoir. 

[He exits. For a monwnt Laura sits silently, and then,. 
merely as a matter of hahity begins the arrangements 
for her toilet. She stands before the windozv and 
begins to take her hair down. She lights the alcohol 
lamp and mechanically places the curling iron over the 
■flame. There is a knock at the door.] 

Laura. Come in. [Annie enters and stops.] That you, Annie? 

Annie. Yessum. 

Laura. Mrs. Farley wants her rent. There is some money on the 
desk. Take it to her. 

46 



[Annie goes to the desk, examines the roll of bills and is 
palpaby sur prise d.~\ 
Annie. They ain't nothin' here, Miss Laura, but five great big one 
hundred dollar bills. 

Laura. Take two, and look in that upper drawer. You'll find some 
pawn tickets there. [Annie complies. 

Annie. Yessum. 

Laura. Take the two top ones and go get my lace gown and one 
of the hats. The ticket is for one hundred and ten dollars. Keep 
ten for yourself and hurry. 

Annie. [Her astonishment nearly overcoming her.] Yessum, Miss 
Laura, yessum. [She goes touiard door and then turns to Laura^ 
crossing to her.] I'm so mighty glad you're out o' all yo' trouble, 

Miss Laura. I says to Miss Farley now 

Laura. [Snapping her oif.~\ Don't — don't. Go do as I tell you and 
mind your business. [Annie tttrns sullenly and zvalks tozvard the 
door. At that moment Laura's eye sees the letter, which she has 
thrown on the dresser.'] Wait a minute. I want you to mail a letter. 
[By this time her hair is half dozmi, hanging loosely over hep 
shoulders. Her waist is open at the throat, collar off and she has the 
appearance of a ivoman's untidiness as she is at that particular stage 
of her toilet. She glmices at the letter long and wistfully and her' 
nerve fails her.] Never mind. I'll mail it when I go out. 

[Annie exits. Slowly Laura puts the letters over the 
Hame of the alcohol lamp and it ignites. As it burns 
she holds it in her Angers, and when half consumed 
throzi's it into the empty fire place. She sits in a 
chair facing it, her hands elapsed in her lap, her hair 
hanging loosely over her back mid shoulders, her eyes 
silently fixed on the flames. As the last flicker is 
seen the curtain slowiy descends.] 



47 



ACT III. 

Scene. Tzvo months have elapsed. The scene is at Brockton's 
apartment in a hotel such as is not over- particular concerning 
the relations of its tenants. There are a number of these hotels 
throughout the theatre district of Nezv York, and, as a rule, 
mie unll find them usually of the same type. The room in 
which this scene is placed is that of the general liznng room in 
one of the handsomest apartments in the building'. The pre- 
vailing color is green and there is nojthing particularly gaudy 
about the general furnishings. They arc in good taste, but 
without the variety of arrangement and orna\mentation which 
would naturally obtain in a room occupied by people a bit more 
particular concerning their surroundings. Down stage and just 
R of C is a table about three feet square which can be used not 
only as a general centre-table, but also for service while the oc- 
cupants are eating. There is a chair on either side of this, and 
at R, is a conojentional hotel fireplace. Going up stage the 
room turns a sharp angle of about 45 degrees from <two to 
three, and this space is largely taken up by a large doorway, 
such as is closed by sliding doors, and this hung with green por- 
tieres, handsome and in harmony zinth the general scheme of 
furnishing of the room. This entrance is presumably to the 
sleeping-room of the apartment. At back of stage is a bay 
zvindozv or alcove, the lozver ztnndozvs of zvhich are of French 
glass, and the upper in plain glass. This view shozvs snow- 
coz'ered roofs and chimneys of New York. There is a window 
seat running around it piled up zmth cushions typical of the 
general character of the room, and other green portieres also 
conceal this alcove from the main room. To the L of the door- 
way and up stage against the black wall is a piano with pianola 
attachment ; to the R of this is a small zvriting desk. This must 
be equipped zvith a small, practical drazver, as the ordinary zco- 
mans zvriting desk — it is necessary that it should be practicable. 
Down L is the entrance to the corridor of the hotel, and this 
must be so arranged that it zvorks with a latch-key and opens 
on to a small hallway which separates this apartment fro^m the 
main hallway. At left of C is a sort of tete-a-tete and there is 
a general arrangement of chairs zvithout overcrowding the 
apartment. Where the R portiere is hung, which can be made 
to conceal the bay zmndozv, is a long, full-length mirror, such 
as zvomen usually have to dress by. 

At Rise. When the curtain rises on this scene it is noticeable that 
the occupants of the room must have returned rather late at 
night, after haznng dined, not wisely, but too well. In the al- 

48 



cove is a man's dresscoat and vest throzvn on the cushions in a 
most careless manner, a silk hat badly rumpled is near it. Over 
tlie top of the luriting desk is an opera cloak, and hung on the 
mirror is a huge hat, of the evening type, such as zvomen zvould 
pay handsomely for. A pair of gloves are throzvn on top of the 
mantle piece, over the fireplace. The curtains in- the bay zvin- 
dozu are half-drazmi, and the light shades are half-drazvn dozvn 
the zvindozvs, so that zvJien the curtain goes up the place is in a 
rather dim light. On the table are the remains of a breakfast, 
zifhich is served in a box-like arrange^nent, such as is used in 
hotels. Laura is discovered sitting at R of table. Her hair a 
bit untidy. She has on a very expensive negligee gozim. Will, 
in a business suit, is at the other side of the table, and both have 
evidently just about concluded their breakfast and are reading 
the nezi'spapers zuhilc they sip their coffee. Laura is intent in 
the scanning of her Morning Telegraph, zvhile Will is deep in 
the market reports of the Journal of Commerce, and in each 
instance these things must be made apparent. Will throzvs 
doviin the paper rather impatiently. 
Will. Have you seen the Sun, Laura • 
Laura. No. 
Will. Where is it? 
Laura. I don't know. 

Will. [In a loud voice.] Annie, Annie! [A pause.] Annie! 
[In an undertone, half directed to Laura.] Where the devil is that 
nigger ? 

Laura. Why, I suppose she's at breakfast. 
Will. Well, she ought to be here. 

Laura. Did it ever occur to you that she has got to eat just the 
same as you have? 

Will. She's your servant, isn't she? 
Laura. My maid. 

Will. Well, what have you got her for, to eat or to wait on you? 
Annie ! 

Laura. Don't be so cross, what do you want? 
Will. I want the Sun. 
Laura. I will get it for you. 

[Rather zifcarily she gets up and goes to the bookcase 
zvhere there are other morning papers, she takes the 
Sun, hands it to him, goes back to her seat, re-opens 
the Morning Telegraph. There is a pause. Annie 
enters from the sleeping-room up R.] 

Annie. Do you want me, sir? 

Will. Yes, I wanted you, but don't now. When I'm at home I 
have a man to look after me and I get what I want. 

49 



Laura. For Heaven's sake, Will, have a little patience. If you 
like your man so well you had better live at home, but don't come 
around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody. 

Will. Don't think for a moment that there's much to come around 
here for. This room's stuffy, Annie. 

Annie. Yes, sir. 

IVill. Draw those portieres. Let those curtains up. Let's have a 
little light. Take away these clothes and hide them. Don't you 
know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to 
remind him of the night before. Make the place look a little re- 
spectable. 

[In the meantime Annie scurries around, picking up the 

coat and vest, opera cloak, etc., as rapidly as possible 

and throzving them over her arm zvithoiit any idea of 

order. It is very apparent that she is rather fearful 

of the anger of Will while lie is in this mood. 

Will. [Look ill g at her.] Be careful, you're not taking the wash 
off the line. 

Annie. Yes, sir. [She exits in- confusion up R. 

Laura. [Laying down paper and looking at Will.] Well, I must 
say you're rather amiable this morning. 

Will. I feel like hell. 

Laura. Market unsatisfactory? 

Will. No; head too big. [He lights a cigar, as he takes a puff he 
makes an aw fid face.] Tastes like punk. 

Laura. You drank a lot. 

Will. We'll have to cut out those parties. I can't do those things 
any m.ore. I'm not as young as I was, and in the morning it makes 
me sick. How do you feel? 

Laura. A little tired, that's all. 

Will. You didn't touch anything? 

Laura. No. 

Will. I guess you're on the safe side. It was a great old party, 
though, wasn't it? 

Laura. Did you think so? 

IVill. Oh, for that sort of a blowout. Not too rough, but just a 
little easy. I like them at night and I hate them in the morning. 
[He picks up the paper and commences to glance it over in a casual 
manner, not interrupting his conversation.] Were you bored? 

Laura. Yes. Alv^ays at things like that. 

IVill. Well, you don't have tc go 

Laura. You asked me. 

Will. Still, you could say no. 

Laura. [Getting up and going up stage.] But you asked me. 

W^ill. What did you go for if vou didn't want to? 

50 



Laura. You wanted me to. 

Will. I don't quite get you. 

Laura. Well, Will, you have all my time when I'm not working in 
the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. You pay 
for it. I'm working for you. 

Will. Is that all I've got, just your time? 

Laura. [Wearily.'] That and the rest — I guess you know. 

Will. [Looking at her curiously.'] Down in the mouth, eh? I'm 
sorry. 

Laura. No, only if you want me to be frank I'm a little tired. 
You may not believe it, but I work awfully hard over at the the- 
atre. Burgess will tell you that. I know Fm not so very good as 
an actress, but I try to be. I'd like to succeed myself. They're 
very patient with me, of course they've got to be, that's another 
thing you're paying for, but I don't seem to get along except this 
way. 

Will. Oh, don't get sentimental. If you're going to bring up that 
sort of talk, Laura, do it some time when I've got a different taste 
in my mouth, and then don't forget talk never does count for much. 

Laura turns around and looks at him steadfastly for a minute. Dur- 
ing this entire scene, from the time the curtain rises she must in 
a way indicate a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a 
feeling, vague, but nevertheless palpable that something ii 
going to happen. She must hold this before her audince so 
that she can shozif to them without shozuing to him the disgust 
she feels. Laura has tasted of the privations of self-sacrifice 
during her struggle, and she has weakly surrendered and is 
unable to go back, but tlunt brief period of self-abnegation has 
shown to her most clearly the rottenness of the other sort of 
living. There is enough sentimentality and emotion in her" 
character to make it impossible for her to accept this manner of 
existence as El fie does. Hers is not a nature of careless candor, 
but of dreamy ideals and better liinng, zi'arped, handicapped, 
disillusioned and destroyed by a zveakncss that finds its centrif- 
ugal force in vanity. 

Will resumes his nezvspaper in a more attentive zvay. The girl 
looks at him and expresses in pantomime by the slightest ges- 
ture or shrug of the shoulders her growing distaste for him and 
his zmy of living, she slozi'ly comes back to her seat. In the 
meantime Will is reading the paper rather carefully. He .stops 
suddenly and then looks at his zvatch. 
Laura. What time is it? 
Will. After ten. 
Laura. Oh. 

Will at this moment he particularly reads some part of the paper^ 

SI 



turns to her with a keen glance of suspicion and inquiry and 
then for a very short moment evidently settles in his mind a 
cross-examination. He has read in this paper a despatch fro-m 
Chicago, zuhich speaks of John Madison having arrived there 
as a representative of a big Western mining syndicate which is 
going to open large operations in the Nevada goldHelds. and'' 
representing IMr. Madison as being on his zvay to N^zv Yorf^ 
zvith sufficient capital to enlist more, and showing him to he 
nozv a man of means. The attitude of Laura and the coinci- 
dence of the despatch bring back to Will the scene in Denver, 
and later in Nciu York, and zmth that subtle, intuition of the 
man of the zvorld he connects the tzuo 
Will. I don't suppose, Laura, that you'd be interested now in 
knowing anything about that young fellow out in Colorado? What 
was his name — Madison. 

Laura. Do you know anything? 

Will. No, nothing particularly. I've been rather curious to know 
how he came out. He was a pretty fresh young man, and did an 
awful lot of talking. I'd like to know what he's doing and how 
he's getting along. I don't suppose by any chance, you have ever 
heard from him? 

Laura. No, no; I've never heard. 

Will. I presume he never replied to that letter you wrote? 
Laura. No. 

Will. It would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should 
happen to come across a lot of money — not that I think he ever 
could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it? 

Laura. Yes, yes, it would be unexpected, I hope he does. It might 
make him happy. 

Will. Think he might take a trip East and see you act. You 
know you've got quite a part now. 

Laura. {Impatiently.] I wish you wouldn't discuss this. Why do 
you mention it now? Is it because you were drinking last night 
and lost your sense of delicacy. You once had some consideration 
for me. What I've done I've done. I'm giving you all that I can. 
Please, please don't hurt me any more than you can help. That's 
all I ask. 

Will Well, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, Laura. I guess I am 
feeling a little bad to-day. Really I don't want to hurt your feel- 
ings, my dear. 

[He gets up, goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, 
and his cheek close to the back of her head. She tries 
hard not to shrink and shudder a little bit. It is very 
easy to see that the life she is leading is becoming in- 
tolerable to her.] 

52 



Will. You know, dearie, I do a lot for you because you've always 
been on the level with me. I'm sorry I hurt you, but there was 
too much wine last night and my stomach's all upset. Forgive me. 
[Laura, in order to avoid his caresses^ has leaned forward, 
her hands are clasped between her knees and she is 
looking straight outward with a cold, impassive ex- 
pression. Will regards her silently for a moment. 
Really in the man's heart there is an affection, and 
really he wants to try to comfort her, hut he seems to 
realize that she has slipped away fro^m the old environ- 
ment and conditions, and that he simply bought her 
back ; that he hasn't any of her affection even imth his 
money, that she ez'inces toward him none of the old 
camaraderie, and it hurts him, as those things always 
hurt a selfish twcm, inclining him to be brutal and in- 
considerate. They hold this position for just a mo- 
ment and the doorbell rings. Will seizes upon this 
excuse to go up stage and over towards the door. 
Annie appears at the portiere from the sleeping 
room. 
Will. Never mind, Annie, I'll answer 

[He continues on his way, he opens the door, leaves it open 
and passes on to the outer door which he opens. 
Laura remains immovable and impassive with the 
same cold, hard expression on her face. He comes in 
slamming the outer door with effect, zvhich one must 
have at this ^point of the play, because it is essential 
to a situation coining later. Enters the room, closes 
the door and holds in his hand a telegram.] 
Will. A wire. 
Laura. For me? 
Will. [Crossing to her.] Yes. 

Laura. From whom, I wonder. Perhaps Elfie with a luncheon 
engagement. 

Will. [Handing to her.] I don't know. Here. [Hands it to her. 
She arises and he faces her. She withi her back to the 
audience, and he looking at her. She opens it quickly^ just as he 
turns to go azuay, his back is to her, she reads it and as she does, 
gasps quickly with an exclamation of fear and surprise. This is 
what the dispatch says. It is dated at Buffalo and addressed to 
Laura:] 

"I will be in New York before noon. I'm coming to marry you 
and I'm coming with a bankroll. I wanted to keep it secret and 
have a big surprise for you, but I can't hold it any longer, because 
I feel just like a kid with a new top. Don't go out and be ready 

53 



for the big matrimonial king. All my love. John.'' 

Will. [Turns, faces Laura's evident confusion.] No bad news I 
hope ? 

Laura. [Walking up stage rather hurriedly.] No, no, not bad 
news. 

Will. I thought you were startled. 

Laura. No, not at all. 

Will. [Picking up the paper and looking at it about where he 
had left o^.]From E=fie? 

Laura. No, just a friend. 

Will Oh! 

[He makes himself rather comfortable in the chair and 
Laura regards him for a moment from, up stage as if 
trying to figure out hozv to get rid of him.] 

Laura. Won't you be rather late getting down town, Will? 

Will. Doesn't make any difference, I don't feel much like the of- 
fice now. Thought I might order the car and take a spin through 
the park. The cold air will do me a lot of good. Like to go? 

Laura. No, not to-day. I thought your business was important; 
you said so last night. 

Will. No hurry. Do you — er — want to get rid of me? 

Laura. Why should I ? 

Will. Expecting some one? 

Laura. No — not exactly 

Will. If you don't mind, I think I'll stay here for a while until I 
feel better. 

Lamra. Just as you please. [A pause.] Will? 

Will Yes. 

Laura. How long does it take to come from Buffalo? 

Will. Depends on the train you take. 

Laura. About how long? 

Will Between eight and ten hours I think. Expecting some one? 

Laura. No, not exactly. Do you know anything about the trains? 

Will Not much, but you could find out. Why don't you have 
Annie get the time table? 

Latira. I will. Annie ! Annie ! 

[Annie appears at doorivay. 

Annie. Yes'm. 

Lamra. Go ask one of the hall boys to bring me a New York 
Central time table. 

Annie. Yes'm. 

[Crosses the stage and exits through door. Laura goes up 
stage and looks out of zvindow.] 

Will Then you do expect some one, eh? 

Laura. Only one of the girls who used to be in the same com- 

54 



pany with me, but I'm not sure that she's coming here. 
Will. Then the wire was from her? 
Laura. Yes. 

Will. Did she say what train she was on ? 
Laura. No. 

Will. Well, there are a lot of trains. What time did you ex- 
pect her in? 

Laura. She didn't say. 
Will. Do I know her? 

Laura. I think not, I met her while I was West — when I worked 
in San Francisco. 

Will. Oh ! [Resumes his paper. 

[Annie re-enters with a time table and hands it to 

Laura.] 
Laura. Thanks, take those breakfast things away, Annie. 

[Annie complies; takes them across stage, opens the door 
leading to the corridor^ puts them outside, returns, 
rings the bell, the button of which is right next to the 
doorway, and then exits, returning to the sleeping- 
room. Laura in the meantime is studying the time 
table. 
Laura. I can't make this out. 
Will. Give it here, maybe I can help you. 

[Laura goes down stage and sits in the chair opposite 
Will, and hands him the time table. He takes it and 
handles it as if he were familiar zvith it.^ 
Will. Where is she coming from? 

Laura. The West; the telegram was from Buffalo, I suppose she 
was on her way when she sent it. 

Will. There's a train comes in here at 10:52 on the Central. That's 
the Chicago Limited, and there's another train at 3 :30 and one at 
4 :oo and 5 :oo, and one at 5 :30, and from the West, and all pass 
through Buffalo. Did you think about meeting her? 
Laura. No. She'll come here when she arrives. 
Will. Knows where you live? 
Laura. She has the address. 
Will. Ever been to New York before? 
Laura. I think not. 

Will. [Passing her the time table.] Well, that's the best I can do 
for you. 
Laura. Thank you. 

Will. [Takes up the paper again. Laura looks at her watch and 
then at Will, then rises and goes up stage again extremely nervous 
and confused.] By George, this is funny. 
Laura. What? 

55 



Will. Speak of the devil, you know. 

Laura. Who? 

Will. Your old friend Madison. 

Laura. [Utters a slight exclamation and makes an effort to con- 
trol herself.] What — what about him? 

Will. He's been in Chicago. 

Laura. How do you know? 

Will. Here's a despatch about him. 

Laura. [Coming quickly over to him, looking over his shoulder.] 
What — ^where- — what's it about? 

Will. Well, I'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do; 
see. [Holds the paper so that she can see.li Here's an interview with 
him. He's been in Chicago and is evidently on his way to New 
York in the interest of a large mining concern somewhere in Ne- 
vada. Judging from this he must have been able to make that 
money I spoke to him about. He's coming on here for capital; 
represented in this despatch as being one of the five owners of the 
new property which is considered very rich. Did you know any- 
thing about it? 

Laura. No, no, nothing at all. 

Will. Lucky for him, eh? 

Laura. Yes, yes, it's very nice. 

Will. Too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, Laura? 

Laura. Oh, I don't know, I don't think it's too bad. What makes 
you ask? 

Will. Oh nothing. I suppose he ought to be here to-day. Are 
you going to see him if he looks you up? 

Laura. No, no; I don't want to see him. You know that, don't 
you, that I don't want to see him? What makes you ask these 
questions ? 

Wilh Just thought you might meet him, that's all. Don't get sore 
about it. 

Lmira. I'm not. 

[She holds the telegram crumpled in one hand and com^s 
down and takes the scat opposite to him. Will lays 
down the paper, carelessly throws his cigar across the 
table and into the empty fireplace, lights a fresh one 
and regards Laura curiously. She sees the expres- 
sion on his face and averts her head in order not to 
meet his eye.] 

Laura. What are you looking at me that way for? 

Will. I wasn't conscious that I was looking at you in any par- 
ticular way, why? 

Laura. Oh, nothing, I guess I'm nervous, too. 

Will. I daresay you are. [A pause. 

56 



Laura. Yes. I am. 

Will. You know I don't want to take up a lot of old memories 
and things at this time, but Ive got to talk to you for a moment. 

Laura. Why don't you do it some other time. I don't want to be 
talked to now. 

Will. But I've got to do it just the same. 

Laura. [Trying to effect an attitude of resigned patience and resig- 
nation.] Well, what is it? 

Will. You've always been on the square with me, Laura. That's 
why I've liked you a lot better than the other women. We never 
deceived ourselves for a moment, did we? 

Laura. Are you going into all that again now, this morning. I 
thought we understood each other. 

Will. So did I, but somehow I think that maybe we don't quite 
understand each other. 

Laura. In what way? 

Will. [Slowly turning to her, looking her straight in the eye.] 
That letter I dictated to you the day that you came back to me, 
and left it for you to mail. Did you mail it? 

Laura. Yes. 

Will. You're quite sure? 

Laura. Yes, I'm quite sure. I wouldn't say so if I wasn't. 

Will. And you didn't know Madison was coming East before. I 
read of it alound from, this newspaper? 

Laura. No — no, I didn't know. 

Will. Have you heard from him? 

Laura. No — no — I haven't heard from him. Don't talk to me 
about this thing. Why can't you leave me alone? I'm miserable 
enouiB^h as it is. 

Wilh I'm sorry, but I've got to talk to you. Laura you're lying 
to me. 

Laura. What ! 

[She makes a valiant effort to became angry.] 

Will. You're lying to me, and you've been lying to me, and I've 
trusted you. Show me that telegram! 

Laura. No. 

Will. [Rises, going over towards her.] Show me that telegram! 

Laura. You've no right to ask me. 

Will. Are you going to make me take it away from you? I've 
never laid my hands on you yet. 

Laura. It's my business. 

Will. Yes, and it's mine. [She rises and they confront each other.] 
From the day you first came into my life, and I took care of you to 
the time when you left, and then came back again, I've been on the 
level with you and never told you a lie, and I trusted you — of all 

57 



the women I knew I trusted you and you lied to me. Don't try to 
tell me anything different. That telegram's from Madison. Give 
it here ! 

Laura. What — what do you want it for? 

Will Give it to me. I'm going to find out where I stand and 
what you have made me do. Come, don't make me take it, but un- 
derstand, if I have to I will. 

[There is a moment of hesitancy, the woman looks at the 
man almost -with defiance, hut his domination slowly 
gains the ascendency and her knowledge of guilt 
weakens her, her whole being seems to suddenly be- 
come unhinged and she holds out the telegram to him 
reluctantly, hut almost frightened. He takes it very 
slowly, looking her squarely in the eye, and does not 
glance away while he slowly smoothes it out so that 
it can he read, when he finally takes it in both hands 
to read it she staggers hack a step or tznfo and weakly 
puts one hand on the mantedpiece for support.] 
Will. Thank you. [Then reads the telegram aloud.] "I will be in 
New York before noon. I'm coming to marry you, and I'm coming 
with a bankroll. I wanted to keep it a secret and have a 
big surprise for you, but I can't hold it any longer, because I feel 
just like a kid with a new top. Don't go out and be ready for the 
big matrimonial thing. All my love. John." [A pause.] Then you 
knew of his good luck? 
Laura. Yes. 

Will. But you didn't know he was coming until this arrived ? 
Laura. No. 

Will. And you didn't mail the letter, did you? 
Laura. No. 

Will. What did you do with it? 
Laura. I — I burned it. 

Will. Why? [Laura is completely overcome and unable to an- 
swer.'] 

Will Why? 

Laura. I — I couldn't help it — I simply couldn't help it 
Will. And he doesn't know — [With a gesture around the room 
indicating the condition in which they live.] about this? 
Laura. No. 

Will. [Taking a step towards her.] By God, I never beat a wo- 
man in my life, but I feel as though I could wring your neck. 

Laura. Why don't you? You've done everything else. Why 
don't you? 

Will Don't you know that I gave Madison my word that if you 
came back to me I'd let him know — don't you know that I like that 

58 



young fellow and I wanted to protect him, and did everything I 
could to help him — and do you know what you've done to me — 
you've made me out a liar — you've made me lie to a man — a man — 
you understand? What are you going to do now? Tell me — what 
are you going to do now ? Don't stand there as if you've lost your 
voice- — how are you going to square me? 

Laura. I'm not thinking about squaring you. What am I going to 
do for him? 

Will. Not, what you are going to do for him — what am I going 
to do for him. Why I couldn't have that young fellow think that 
I tricked him into this thing for you or all the rest of the women 
of your kind on earth. God ! I might have known that you and 
the others like you couldn't be square. [The Girl looks at him 
dumbly. He glances at his watch, walks up stage, looks out of the 
window, comes dozmt agairi, goes to the table and looks at her 
across it.] You've made a nice mess of it, haven't you? 

Laura. [Weakly.] There isn't any mess. Please go away. He'll 
be here soon — please let me see him — please do that. 

Wilf. No, I'll wait — I'm a little late, that's true, but this time I'm 
going to tell him myself and I don't care how tough it is 

Laura. [Immediately regaining cAl her vitality and leaning on the 
table toward him.] No, you musn't do it. 

Laura. No. Oh, Will, I'm not oflfering any excuse. I'm not say- 
ing anything, but I'm telling you the truth. I couldn't give him up — 
I couldn't do it — I love him. Don't you think so ? I know you can't 
see what I see, but I do. And why can't you go away. Why can't 
you leave me this. It's all I ever had. He doesn't know. No one 
will ever tell him. I'll take him away — it's the best for him — it's 
the best for me. Please go. 

Will. Why — do you think that I'm going to let you trip him the 
way you tripped me. I don't know why I ever thought you were 
an exception, but I did. There are no illusions about me, Laura. 
I know, because I lived close to all this thing, but he doesn't. I'm 
going to stay right here until that young man arrives and I'm go- 
ing to tell him that it wasn't my fault he's been stung the way he 
has. I wanted to do right. You were to blame. 

Laura. Then you are going to let him know. You're not going 
to give me a single, solitary chance? 

Will. I'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. 
Then he can do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, 
that's flat. 

Laura. Then you must let me tell him — yes yon must — if I didn't 
tell him before I'll do it now. You must go. If you ever had any 
regard for me — if you ever had any affection — if you ever had any 
friendship, please let me do this now. I want you to go — you can 

59 



come back. Then you'll see — you'll know — only I want to try to 
make him understand that — that maybe if I am weak I'm not 
vicious — I want to let him know that I didn't want to do it, but I 
couldn't help it. Just give me the chance to be as good as I can be 
— oh, I promise you. Will, I'll tell him and then — then I don't care 
what happens — only he must learn everything from me — please — 
please — let me do this — it's the last favor I shall ever — ever ask of 
you. Won't you? 

JVilh [Rising, looks at her a moment as if mentally debating the 
best thing to do.] All right, I won't be unkind. But just remember 
this, this is the time you'll have to go right through to the end. 
I'll be back early in the afternoon, and then unless you've carried 
out my promise to him in every detail, I'll have to do the thing 
myself — when that's done we can talk about the future, but remem- 
ber this is the thing you must do now. Understand? 

Laura. Yes — thank you — I'll do all of it — all of it — won't you — 



go — now ? 



Will. All right. 

[He exits into the bedroom and immediately enters again 
zrnth oevercoat on his arm- and hat in hand, he goes to 
the door and turns.] 
I am sorry for you, Laura, but remember you've got to tell the 
truth — all of it. I'll be back at between two and three. 

Laura. [Who is sitting in a chair looking straight in front of her 
zmth a set expression.] Please go. He exits. 

Laura sits in a chair in a state of almost stupefaction, holding this 
attitude as long as possible. Annie enters up R through the 
portieres and in a lazy, characteristic manner begins her task of 
tidying up the room. Laura, without changing her attitude 
and staring straight in front of her, her elbows between her 
knees and her chin on her hands. 
Laura. Annie ! 
Annie. Yes'm. 

Laura. Do you remember in the boarding house — when we finally 
packed up — what you did with everything? 
Annie. Yes. 

Laura. You remember that in my top chiffonier drawer I used 
to keep a pistol ? 

Annie. You all mean that little black one you say that gentleman 
out West gave you once? 
Laura. Yes. 
Annie. Yes'm, I remember it. 

Laura. Where is it now? 

Annie. [Xes to ztriting desk.] Last I saw of it was in this here 
drawer in the writing desk. [This speech takes her across to desk, 

60 



she opens the drawer, fumbles among a lot of old papers, letters, 
etq., and finally produces a small, gunmetal, automatic 2,2-calibfe^ 
Colt, aad gingerly puts it in her hand.] Is this it? 

Laura. [Slo7iH turns around and looks at it.] Yes. Put it back. 
I thought perhaps it was lost. [Annie complies, Xes over tozvard 
the portiere leading into sleeping apartment and is about to exit 
when the bell rings. Laura starts suddenly, involuntarily gathering 
her negligee gown closer to her figure, and at once she is under a 
great stress of emotion, and sways upon her feet to such an extent 
that she is obliged to put one hand out onto the table to mainiain 
her balance. When she speaks it is with a certain difficulty of artic- 
ulation.] See — who — that is — and let me know. 

Annie. [Turning.] Yes'm. [Xes, opens the first door and after- 
wards opens the second door. ElUe's voice off stage.] Hello, Annie, 
folks home? 

[Laura immediately evidences her tremendous relief, and 
Effie, unthout zvaiting for a reply, has shoced Annie 
aside and enters, Annie following and closing the 
door. Elfie is beautifully gozuned in a morning dress 
zmth an overabundance of fur trimmings and all the 
furbelozvs that zvould accompany an extraz^agant 
raiment generally affected by a woman of that type. 
Elfie approaching cWusiz'cly. 
Elfie. Hello, dearie. My goodness. Don't you ever get dressed? 
I've been shopping all morning long, just blew myself imtil I'm 
broke, that's all. Listen — talk about cinches, I copped out a gown, 
all ready made, and fits me like the paper on the wall, for $37.80, 
looks like it might have cost $200, anyway I had them charge $200 
on the bill and took the rest. There are two or three more down 
town there, and I want you to go down and look them over. Mod- 
els, you know, being sold out. I don't blame you for not getting 
up earlier. [She is seated at the table, not noticing Laura zvho still 
stands looking at her.] That was some party last night. I know you 
didn't drink a great deal, but gee ! didn't Will have an awful little 
tide on. How do you feel? [Looks at her critically.] What's the 
matter, are you sick? You look all in. What you want to do is 
this — put on your duds and go out for an hour. It's fine outside, 
clear and cold. [A pause.] Well, much obliged for the conversation. 
Don't I get a "Good morning," or a "How-de-do," or a something 
of that sort? 

Laura. I'm tired, Elfie, and blue — terribly blue. 

Elfie. Well, now, you just brace up and cut all that emotional 
stuff out. I came down to take you for a drive, to-night you'd like 
it; just through the park. Will you go? 

Laura. [Going up stage.] Not this morning, dear, I'm expecting 

61 



somebody. 

El fie. A man? 

Laura. [Finding it almost impossible to suppress a smile.] No, a 
gentleman. 

El fie. Same thing.. Do I know him? 

Laura. You've heard of him. 

Elue. Well, don't be so mysterious who is he? 

Laura. What time is it? 

Elfie. [Looks at her icatch.] Five minutes past eleven. 

Laura. [Quickly.'] I didn't know it was so late; just excuse me, 
won't you, while I get some clothes on. He may be here any mo- 
ment. [She goes up stage tozt'ards portieres. 

Eliie. Who? 

Laura. I'll tell you when I get dressed. Make yourself at home, 
won't you, dear? 

Elfe. I'd sooner hear. What is the scandal anyway? 

Lamra. [Just as she exits.] I'll tell you in a moment. Just as soon 
as Annie gets through with me. [She exits. 

Elfie. [Rising and walking to L of stage and in a louder voice.] 
Do you know Laura I think I'll go back on the stage. 

Laura. [Off stage.] Yes? 

Elfie. Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to, I think I need a sort of a boost 
to my popularity. 

Laura. How a boost, Elfie? 

Elfie. I think Jerry is getting cold feet, he's seeing a little too 
much of me — you know I mean my company 

Laura. What makes you think that? 

Elfie. I think he is getting a relapse of that front row habit : 
there's no use in talking, Laura, it's a great thing for a girl's credit 
when a man like Jerry can take two or three friends to the theatre 
and when you make your entrance delicately point to you with his 
forefinger and say: "That one on the left, she's mine." The old 
fool's hanging around some of these musical comedies lately, and 
I'm getting a little nervous every time rent day comes. 

Laura. Oh, I guess you'll get along all right, Elfie. 

Elfie. [With serene self-satisfaction.] Oh, that's a cinch, but I 
like to leave well enough alone, and if I had to make a change 
right now it would require a whole lot of thought and attention. 
[She sees the pianola.] Say, dearie, when did you get the hurdy- 
gurdy? The girl in the flat next to me has got one and it's just a 
little worse than the phonograph upstairs. [JVanders over and looks 
over the rolls on top. Mumbles to herself.] Tanhauser, William 
Tell, Chopin. Then louder.] Listen, dear, ain't you got anything 
else except all this high-brow stuff? 

Laura. What do you want? 

62 



Elfie. Oh, something with a regular time to it. Oh, here's one; 
just watch me tear this off. 

[The roll is the tune of ''Bon-Bon Buddie, the Chocolate 

Drop." She starts to play and moves the le7-'er 

marked "SzvelV unde open, increases the tempo and 

is pumping zmth all the delight and enthusiasm of a 

child.] 

Laura. Gracious, Elfie, don't play so loud. What's the matter? 

Elfie. I shoved over that thing marked ''Swell." [Stops and 

turns.] If they're making these things for me, they can stop right 

away. Hurry up. [Laura appears.] Gee, you look pale. [And then 

in a ton-e of sympathy] I'll just bet you and Will have had a fight 

and he always gets the best of you, doesn't he, dearie? Listen. 

Don't you think you can ever get him trained? I almost threw 

Jerry down the stairs the other night and he came right back with 

five dozen American beauties and a check. I told him if he didn't 

look out I'd throw him downstairs ever\^ night. He's getting too 

damned independent and it's got me nervous. Oh, dear, I s'pose 

I will have to go back on the stage. 

Laura. In the chorus? 

Elfie. Well, I should say not. I'm going to give up my musical 
career; Charlie Burgess is putting on a little play and he says he 
has a part in it for me if I want to go back. It isn't much, but 
very important, sort of a pantomime part. A lot of people talk 
about me and just at the right time I walk across the stage and 
make an awful hit. I told Jerry about it and I said that if I went 
on he'd have to come across with one of those Irish crochet lace 
gowns. He fell for it. Do you know I think it would be a good 
scheme to take the job just to get the dress. 
Laura. [Seriously.] Elfie? 
Elfie. Yes, dear. 

Laura. [Mores dozi'ii to the chair opposite the table.] Come over 
here and sit down. 
Eine. What's up? 

Laura'. Do you know what I'm going to ask of you? 
Elfie. If it's a touch, you'll have to wait until next week. 

[She comes over zmth this speech and sits opposite Laura.] 
Laura. No ; just a little advice. 

Elfie. [With a smile.] Well, that's cheap, and Lord knows you 
need it. What's happened? 

[Laura takes the crumpled telegrami that Will has left 
oil the table and hands it to Elfie. The latter reads 
it very carefully and lays it dozvn.] 

Elfie. Well? 

Laura. Will suspected, there was something in the paper about 

63 



Mr. Madison, the telegram came, then we had a row. 

Elfie. Serious? 

Laura. Yes. Do you remember what I told you about that letter 
— the one Will made me write — I mean to John — telling him what 
I had done? 

Elfic. Yes, you burned it. 

Laura. I tried to lie to Will ; he wouldn't have it that way. He 
seemed to know. He was furious. 

Elfie. Did he hit you? 

Laura. No ; he made me admit that John didn't know, and then 
he said he'd stay here and tell himself that I'd made him lie, and 
then he said something about liking the other man and wanting to 
save him. 

Elfie. Save. Shucks. He's jealous. 

Laura. I told him if he'd only go I'd — tell John myself when 
he came, and now you see I'm waiting — and I've got to tell — and — 
and I don't know how to begin — and — an.d I thought you could 
help me — 3^ou seem so sort of resourceful, and it means — it means 
so much to me. If John turned on me now I couldn't go back to 
Will, and Elfie, — I don't think I'd care to — to stay here any more. 

Elfic. [Getting up and sloidy going around the table, putting her 
hands on Laura's shoulders.] Dearie, get that nonsense out of your 
head and be practical. I'd just like to see any two men who could 
make me think about — well — what you seem to have in your mind. 

Laura'. But I don't know, don't you see, Elfie, I don't know — if 
I don't tell him Will will come back and he'll tell him, and I know 
John and maybe. — Elfie, do you know, I think John would kill him. 

Elfie. Well, don't you think anything about that. Now let's get 
down to cases and we haven't much time. Business is business 
and love is love. You're long on love and I'm long on business, 
and between the two of us we ought to straighten this thing out. 
[Goes over and sits down opposite her unth both hands on the 
table, all attention, alertness and interest.} Now, evidently, John is 
coming on here to marry you. 

Laura. Yes. 

Elfie. And you love him? 

Laura. Yes. 

Elfie. And as far as you know the mom_ent that he comes in here 
it's quick to the justice and a big matrimonial thing. 

Laura. Yes, but you see how impossible it is 

Elfic. I don't see anything impossible. From all you've said to 
me about this fellow there is only one thing to do. 

Laura. One thing? 

Elfie. Yes — get married quick. You say he has the money and 
YOU have the love, and you're sick of Brockton, and you want 

64 



to switch and do it in the, decent, respectable, conventional way, 
and he's going to take you away. Haven't you got sense enough 
to know that once you're married to Mr. Madison that Will 
Brockton wouldn't dare go to him, and if he did Madison wouldn't 
believe him. 

Laura. [Turm and looks at her. There is a long pause.] Elfie, 
I — I don't think I could do like that to John — I don't think — I could 
deceive him. 

Elfie. You make me sick. The thing to do is to lie to all men; 
they all lie to you. Protect yourself. You seem to think that 
your happiness depends on this. Now do it. Listen — don't you 
realize that you and me and all the girls that are shoved into this 
life are practically the common prey of any man who happens to 
come along? Don't you know that they've get about as much con- 
sideration for us as they have for any pet animal around the house, 
and the only way that we've got it on the animal is that we've 
got brains. This is a game, Laura, not a love affair. Do you sup- 
pose this Madison — now don't get sore — hasn't turned these tricks 
himself before he met you, and I'll gamble he's done it since. A 
man's natural trade is a heartbreaking business. Don't tell me 
about women breaking men's hearts. The only thing they can 
ever break is their bankroll, and besides this is not Will's busi- 
ness, he has no right to interfere. You've been with him — yes — 
and he's been nice to you, but I don't think that he's given you 
any the best of it. Now if you want to leave and go your own 
way and marry any Tom, Dick or Harry that you want, it's no- 
body's affair but yours. 

Laura. But you don't understand ; it's John ; I can't lie to him. 

Elfie. Well, that's too bad about you. I used to have that truth- 
ful habit, and the best I ever got was the worst of it. All this 
talk about love and loyalty and constancy is fine and dandy in a 
book, but when a girl has to look out for herself, take it from me, 
whenever you've got that trump card up your sleeve just play it 
and rake in the pot. [She rises and goes round the table and puts 
her arms around Laura, puts her cheek doimi to Lauras face, and 
in the tenderest voice.] You know, dearie, you're just about the 
only one in the world I love since I broke away from the folks up 
state and they've heard things ; there ain't any more letters coming 
to me with an Oswego postmark. Ma's gone, and the rest don't 
care. You're about all I've got in the world, and what I'm ask- 
ing you to do is because I want to see you happy. I was afraid 
this thing was coming off and the thing to do now is to grab your 
happiness no matter how you get it nor where it comes from. 
There ain't a whole lot of joy in this world for us and the others 
we know, and what little you get you've got to take when you're 

65 



young, because when those gray hairs begin to come, and the make- 
up isn't going to hide the wrinkles, unless you're well fixed, it's 
going to be hell. You know, what a fellow doesn't know doesn't 
hurt him, and he'll love you just the same and you'll love him. 
As for Brockton, let him get another girl ; there're plenty 'round. 
Why if this chance came to me I'd tie a can to Jerry so quick that 
you could hear it rattle all the way down Broadway. [Very tcn- 
derly] Dearie, promise me that you won't be a damn fool. 
[The bell rings; both start.] 
Laura. Maybe that's John. 

[Elfie brushes a tear quickly from her eye and instinct- 
ively for her bag and pou'ders her nose.] 
Elfie. And you'll promise me, Laura? 
Laura. I'll try. 

[Annie enters up stage from the adjoining room and Xes 

to the door.] 
Tf that's Mr. Madison, Annie, tell him to come in. 
[She stands near the table, almost rigid. Instinctively 
Elfie goes to the mirror and re-arranges her gozun 
and hair as Annie exits.] 
Elfie. If I think he's the fellow when I see him watch me and I'll 
tip you the wink. 

[She goes up stage to C and turns. Laura remains in 
her position. The doors are heard to open and in a 
moment Joi-:n enters. He is dressed very neatly in 
a business suit and his face is tanned and weather- 
beaten. After he enters he stands still for a moment. 
The emotion that both he and Laura go through is 
such that each is trying to control it. Laura from 
the agony of her position and John from the mere 
hurt of his affection. He sees Elfie and forces a 
smile.] 
John. [Quietly.] Hello, Laura. I'm on time. 

[Laura siniles and quickly Xes the stage and holds out 
her hand.] 
Laura. Oh, John, I'm so glad — so glad to see you. 

[They hold this position for a moment looking into each 

other's eyes. Elfie moves so as to take John tn 

from head to toe and is obviously very much pleased 

unth his appearance. She coughs slightly.] 

[Taking a step back zvith a senile.] Oh, pardon me, John, 

one of my dearest friends. Miss Sinclair; she's heard a lot about 

you. 

[Elfie, zvith a slight gush, in her most captivating man- 
ner 2oes over and holds out her gloved hand laden 
66 



ztL'ith bracelets, and ztnth her sweetest smile.] 
El fie. How do you do? 
Madison. I'm glad to meet you, I'm sure. 

[Still holding John's hand.] 
Elfie. Yes, I'm sure you are — particularly just at this time. [To 
Laura.] You know that old stuff about two's company and three 
is a crowd. Mr. Madison, I'm off. 

Laura. [As Elfie goes tozvard door.] Don't hurry, dear. 
Eliie. [With a grhv.\ No, I suppose not; just fall downstairs and 
get out of the way, that's all. Anyway, Mr. Madison, I'm glad to 
have met you, and I want to congratulate you ; they tell me you're 
rich. 

John. Oh, no; not rich. 

Elfie. Well, I don't believe you — anyway I'm going — ta, ta — 
dearie. Good-bye, Mr. Madison. 

[She goes to the door, opens it and turns. John's hack 
is partly tozvard her and she gives a long zvink at 
Laura.] 
I must say, Laura, then, when it comes to picking them 
out, you certainly can go some. 

[After this remark both turn tozvard her and both smile. 

After she leaves, John turns toward Laura.] 
[After Elfie exits, John turns to Laura with a pleasant 
smile and jerks his head tozvards the door where 
Elfie has gone out.] 
John. I bet she's a character. 
Laura. She's a dear. 
John. I can see that all right. 
Laura. She's been a very great friend to me. 
John. That's good, but I don't get a how-de-do, or a handshake 
or a little kiss? You know I've come a long ways. 

[Laura goes to him and places herself in Ms arms; he 
kisses her affectionately. During all this scene be- 
tzijeen them the tenderness of the man is vcfy appar- 
ent. As she releases herself from his embrace he 
takes her face in his hands and holds it up tozvards 
his.] 
John. I'm not much on the lovemaking business, Laura, but I 
never thought I'd be as happy as I am now. I've been counting 
mileposts eVer since I left Chicago, and it seemed like as if I had 
to go 'round the world before I got here. 

Laura. You never told me about your good fortune. If you 
hadn't telegraphed I wouldn't even have known you were coming. 

John. I didn't want you to. 

[He leads her over to the table, and they both sit dowi^ 

67 



during this conversation.^ 

John. I'd made up my mind to sort of drop in here and give you 
a great big surprise— a happy one I knew— but the papers made 
such a fuss in Chicago that I thought you /night have read about 
it — did you? 

Laura. No. 

John. [With a smile.'] Well are you ready? 

Laura. For what, dear? 

John. You know what I said in the telegram? 

Laura. Yes. 

John. Well, I meant it. 

Laura. I know. 

John. I've got to get back, Laura, just as soon as ever I can. 
There's a lot of work to be done out in Nevada and I stole away 
to come to New York. I want to take you back. Can you go? 

Laura. Yes. When? 

John. This afternoon. We can take the Twentieth Century 
Limited at half past three, connect at Chicago with the Overland 
Limited, and I'll soon have you in a home. And here's another 
secret. 

Laura. What, dear? 

John. I've got that home all bought and furnished, and while 
you couldn't call it a Fifth Avenue residence, still it's one of the 
best in the town. 

Laura. But, John, you haven't told me a single, solitary word 
about yourself, and what you've done, and how your good luck 
came. 

John. I wanted to take you out and show you all that. You 
know it's been pretty tough sledding out there — in the mining 
country, and it did look as if I never would make a strike — but 
you were with me, and luck was with me — and I knew if I could 
only hold out that something would come my way. I had two pals, 
both of them miners — they had the knowledge and I had the luck 
and one day — clearing away a little snow to build a fire — I poked 
my toe into the dirt and there was somethin' there, dearie, that 
looked suspicious. I called Jim — that's one of the men — and in 
less time than it takes to tell you there were three m.ajiiacs scratch- 
ing old Mother Earth for all they were worth. We staked our 
claims in two weeks, and I came to Reno to raise enough money 
for me to come East. Now things are all fixed and it's just a mat- 
ter of time. 

Laura. So you're very, very rich, dear? 

John. Oh, not rich — just heeled. I'm not going down to the Wall 
Street bargain counter and buy the Union Pacific, or anything like 
that — but we won't have to take the trip in on tourists' tickets, and 

68 



there's enough money to make us comfortable all the rest of our 
lives. [Lightly.] You see, Laura, you were the inspiration and it 
was bound to come. 

Laura. How hard you must have worked and suffered. It was 
terrible, wasn't it? 

John. No; it was beautiful. Why, dear — — [He takes her hand 
and places it against his heart.] Since the day you came into my 
life hell raising took a sneak out the back door and God poked 
His foot in the front, and ever since then I think He's been com- 
ing a little closer to me. I used to be a fellow without much faith 
and scoffed at everybody who had it, and I used to say to those 
who prayed and believed, ''You may be right, but show me a mes- 
sage." You came along and you brought that little document in 
your sweet face and your dear love. Laura, you turned the trick 
for me, and I think Lm almost a regular man now. 

[Laura turns away in pain, the realization of all she is 
to John zveighs heavily upon her. She almost loses 
her nerve and is on the verge of not going through 
with her determination to get her happiness at any 
price.] 

Laura. John, please don't — I'm not worth it. 

John. [With a light air.] Not worth it? Why you're worth that 
and a whole lot more, and see how you've got on. I heard all 
about you. Brockton told me you never could get along in your 
profession, but I knew you could, I knew what you had in you, 
and here you are. [He rises, takes both her hands and looks around 
the room.] You see if my foot hadn't slipped on the right ground 
and kicked up paydirt, you'd been all right. You succeeded and I 
succeeded, but I'm going to take you away, and after a while 
when things sort of smooth out and it's all clear where the money's 
coming from we're going to move back here and gO' to Europe 
and just have a great time, like a couple of good pals. 

Laura. [Slowly.] But if I hadn't succeeded and if things — 
things weren't just as they seem — would it make any difference 
to you, John? 

John. Not the least in the world. [He takes her in his arms and 
kisses her.] Now don't you get blue. I should not have surprised 
you this way. It's taken you off your feet. [He looks at his 
watcU.] But we've not any time to lose. How soon can you get 
ready ? 

Laura. 'You mean to go ? 

John. Nothing else. 

Laura. Take all my things? 

John. All your duds. 

Laura. Why, dear, I can get ready most any time 

69 



Johii. I planned it all out. There's a couple of the boys working 
down town, newspaper men on Park Row, who used to be with 
me out West. Telephoned them when I got in and they're wait- 
ing for me. I'll just get down there as soon as I can, and you and 
your maid pack everything you want to take. The rest can fol- 
low later. I'll get the license. We'll be married and we'll be off 
on our honeymoon this afternoon. Can you do it? 

[Laura goes up to him, puts her hands in his and- they 
confront each other.'] 
Laura. Yes, dear, I could do anything for you. 

[He takes her in his arms and kisses her again. Looks at 
her tenderly.] 
John. I love you, Laura, and this is the happiest little day I've 
ever had in my life. [Disengages her, takes his coat and hat.] 
Now I'm off, and you get on the job. I'll arrange for everything 
but don't you waste a moment, because if we don't catch that train 
we can't make the Overland in Chicago to-morrow, and we've got 
to get home. [Goes tozvard the door.] You'll be ready? 
Laura. Yes. 

John. [With a smile.] So long, honey. 
Laura. Hurry back, John. 

John. Yes. [He exits. 

Laura. [Stands for a moment looking after him, then she sud- 
denly recovers herself and walks rapidly over to the entrance up 
R.] Annie, Annie, come here. 

Annie. Yes'm. [She appears at the door. 

Laura. Annie, I'm going away, and I've got to hurry. I want 

you to bring both my trunks out here. I'll help you and start to 

pack. We can't take everything, but bring all the clothes out and 

we'll hurry as fast as we can. Come on. 

[She exits zmth Annie. In a very short interval she re- 
appears and both are carrying a large trunk bctzveen 
them. They put it dozvn up stage.] 
Laura. Let's get the other. I can take two. 
Annie. Where are yuh goin'. Miss Laura? 

Laura. Never mind where I'm going. I haven't any t'me to 
waste now talking. I'll teU you later. This is one time, Annie, 
that you've got to move. Hurry up. 

[Laura pushes her in front of her. They exit the same 
zvay and reappear zvith a smaller trunk. These trunks 
are of the same type as those in Act I. When the 
trunks are put dozvn Laura opens one and coin^ 
mences to throzv things out. Annie stands zvatching 
her.] 
For Heaven's sake, go get something. Don't stand there look- 

70 



ing at me. I want you to hurry. 

Annie. Yes'm. 

[She plunges toward the room. Laura continues busily 
arranging the contents of the trunk, placing some 
garments here and some there, as if she w>ere sort- 
ing them out. A latch key is heard in the lock, but 
she does not notice it. Will quietly enters and stands 
at the door looking at her. He holds this position as 
long as possible, and when he speaks it is in a very 
quiet tone.] 

Will. Going- away? 

Laura. [Starts, rises and confronts him.] Yes. 

Will. In somewhat of a hurry, I should say. 

Laura. Yes. 

Will. What's the plan? i 

Laura. I'm just going, that's all. 

Will. Madison been here? 

Laura. He's just left. 

Will. Of course you are going with him? 

Laura. Yes. 

Will. West? 

Laura. To Nevada. 

Will. Going — er — to get married? 

Laura. This afternoon. 

Will. So he didn't care then? 

Laura. What do you mean when you say "He didn't care?" 

Will. Of course you told him about the letter, and how it was 
burned up, and all that thing, didn't you? 

Laura. Why, yes. 

Will. And he said it didn't make any difference? 

Laura. He^ — he didn't say anything. We're just going to be 
married, that's all. 

Will. Did you mention my name and say that we'd been rather 
companionable for the last two months? 

Laura. I told him you'd been a very good friend to me. 

[During this scene Laura answers Will with dif- 
ficulty, and to a man of the world it is qtiite apparent 
that she is not telling the truth. Will looks over 
toward her in an almost threatening way.] 

Will. How soon do you expect him back? 

Laura. Quite soon. I don't know just exactly how long he'll be. 

Will. And you mean to tell me that you kept your promise and 
told him the truth? 

Laura. I — I. [Then with defiance.] What business have you got 
to ask me that? What business have you got to interfere anyway? 

71 



JVill. [Quietly.] Then you've lied again. You lied to him and you 
just tried to lie to me now. I must say, Laura, that you're not 
particularly clever at it, although I don't doubt but that you've had 
considerable practice. 

[Gives her a searching look and slowly walks over to 
the chair at the table and sits dozvn, still holding his 
hat in his hand and without removing his overcoat.] 

Laura. What are you going to do? 

Will. Sit dovv^n here and rest a few moments; maybe longer. 

Laura. You can't do that. 

Will. I don't see why not. It'sjny own house. 

Laura. But don't you see that he'll come back here soon and find 
vou here ? 

Will. That's just exactly what I want him to do. 

Laura. [With suppressed emotion almost on the z^erge of 
hysteria.] Vve — I've never asked any favor of you, but I want to 
tell you this. If you do this you'll ruin my life. You've done enough 
to it already. Now I want you to go. You've got to go. I don't 
think you've got any right to come here now, in this way, and take 
this happiness from me. I've given you everything I've got, and 
now I want to live right and decent, and he wants me to, and we 
love each other. Now, Will Brockton, it's come to this. You've 
got to leave this place, do you hear? You've got to leave this place. 
Please get out. 

Will. [Rises and come to her.] Do you think I'm going to let you 
interfere with my plans? Do you think I'm going to let a woman 
make a liar out of me? I'm going to stay right here. I like that 
boy, and I'm not going to let you put him to the bad. 

Laura. I want you to go. 

Will. And I tell you I won't go. I'm going to show you up just 
as you ought to be shown up. You've tried my patience just about 
as far as I can stand. I'm going to tell him the truth. It isn't you 
I care for, he's got to know. 

Laiira. [Loses her temper and is almost tiger-like in her anger.] 
You don't care for me? It isn't me you're thinking of? Who's 
the liar now? You are. You don't care for this man. AU my life, 
since the day you first took me away,, you've planned and planned 
and planned to keep me, and to trick me and bring me down with 
you. When you came to me I was happy. I didn't have much, just 
a little salary and some hard work. You say I'm bad, but who's 
made me so? Who took me out night after night? Who showed me 
what these luxuries were? Who put me in the habit of buying some- 
thing I couldn't afford? Who got me in debt, and then, when I 
wouldn't do what you wanted me to, who had me discharged from 
the company so I had no means of living? Who followed me from 

72 



one place to another ? Who, always entreating, tried to trap me into 
this Hfe, and I didn't know any better? I knew it was wrong, yes, 
but you told me everybody in this business did that sort of thmg, 
and I was just as good as anyone else. Finally you got me and you 
kept me. Then when I went away to Denver, and for the first time 

found a gleam of happiness, for the first time in my life 

Will. You're crazy. 

Laura. I am crazy. You've made me crazy. You followed me 
to Denver, and then when I got back you bribed me again. You 
pulled me dov/n, and you did the same old thing until this hap- 
pened. Now I want you to get out, you understand. [Goes over 
and pushes him.] I want you to get out. 
Will. Laura, you can't do this. 

Laura. [Screaming.] No, you won't; you won't stay here. You're 
not going to do this thing again. I tell you I'm going to be happy. 
I tell you I'm going to be married. 

[She pushes him toward the door. He doesn't resist her 

very strongly. Her anger and her rage are entirely 

new to him. He is surprised and eannot understand.] 

You won't see him. I tell you you won't tell him. You've got 

no business to. I hate you. I've hated you for months. Now you've 

got to go — you've got to go — you've got to go. 

Will. Laura, I tell you I'll stay. 

[Tries to speak, hut he doesn't interrupt her. She's losing 
control of herself.] 
Laura. I want you to get out. I want you to get out. I hate you. 
I hate you. 

Will. I'll come back. 

Laura. I hate you. I hate you. 

[Shoves him out of door and slams it, and swaying on 
her feet, with her hand on the knob, as if afraid he 
woidd force his zvay in.] 
Get out. Get out. Get out ! 

[As she stands almost screaming these words, Annie ap- 
pears at the portieres and looks at her, and then the 
curtain falls.] 



73 



ACT IV. 

Scene. The same scene as Act III. It is about two o'clock in the 
afternoon. 

At Rise. When the curtain rises there are two big trunks and one 
small trunk up stage. These trunks are marked in the usiia!^ 
theatrical fashion, the small trunk is of the steamer type. There 
are grips packed, umbrellas and the usual paraphernalia, that 
accompanies a zvoman when she is nmking a permanent de- 
parture from her place of living. Through the windows the 
snow can be seen falling. Seated on a trunk up L is Laura, 
Iter hat and zvraps are near her and she is evidently ready to 
leave at a moment's notice. Annie, rather disconsolate, is 
dozmt R seated in a chair near the table and facing her mis- 
tress. Laura is pde and perturbed. 
Annie. And ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, Miss 

Laura ? 

Laura. I don't know yet, Annie. I don't even know what the place 

is like that we're going to. Mr. Madison hasn't said much. There 

hasn't been time. 

Annie. Why Ah've done ma best for yuh, Miss Laura, yes Ah 

have. Ah just been with yer ev'ry moment of ma time, an' Ah 

worked for yer, an' Ah loved yuh, an' Ah doan wan' to be left 'ere 

all alone in this town 'ere in New York, Ah ain't the kind of 

colored lady knows many people. Can't yuh take me along wid 

yuh. Miss Laura, yuh all been so good to me. 

Laura. Why I told you to stay here and get your things together. 

and then Mr. Brockton will probably want you to do something-. 

Later I think he'll have you pack up just as soon as he finds I'm 

gone. I've got the address that you gave me. ; I'll let you know if 

you can come on. 

Annie. \ Suddenly.] Aint yer goin' to give me anything at all jes 

to remember yer by? Ah've been so honest 

Laura. Honest? 

Annie. Yes'm, honest. 

Laura. You've been about as honest as most colored girls are 
who work for women in the position that I am in. You haven'^ 
stolen enough to make me discharge you, but I've seen what you've 
taken. Don't try to fool me. What you've got you're welcome to, 
but for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and 
honestly, I'm sick of it. 

Annie. Ain't yer goin' to give me no recommendation? 

Laura. [Impatiently looking around the room.] What good would 
my recommendation do? You can always go and get another po- 
sition with people who've lived the way I've lived, and my recom- 

74 



mendation to the other kind wouldn't amount to much. Now shut 
your noise. I don't want to hear any more. I've ^iven you $25 for 
a present. I think that's enough. 

[Annie assumes a most aggrieved appearance. Laura's 
impatience increases. She glances at her watch and 
goes to the window and looks out.^ 
Laura. I wonder where John is. We'll never be able to make that 
train. [There is another interval in which her anxiety is made ap- 
parent, then the bdl rings.] That must be he, Annie — go quick. 
[Annie Xes and opens the door .in the usual manner. \ 
Jim's voice outside. Is Miss Murdock in? 
Annie. Yes, sir, she's in. 

[Laura is up C stage and turns to receive visitor. Jim- 
enters. He is nicely dressed in black and has an ap- 
pearance of prosperity about him, but in other re- 
spects he retains the old drollness of enunciation and 
manner. He Xes to Laura m a cordial way and 
holds out his hand. Annie Xes, after closing the 
door, and exits through the porticrs into the sleeping 
apartment.'] 
Jim. How-de-do, Miss Laura. Look like as if you were going to 
move ? 

Laura. Jim Weston, I'm mighty glad to see you. Yes, I am going 
to move, and a long ways, too. How well you're looking; as fit as 
a fiddle. 

Jim. Yes. \Sitting on a trunk.] I am feelin' fine. Where yer 
goin'? Troupin'? 

Laura. No, not exactly. 

Jim. [Surveying the baggage.] Thought not. You'd have to be an 
A Number One star to carry all this junk along. I've heard about 
ye in the part you're playin', and I was kinder glad to see ye 
gettin' along so well. What's comin' oflf now? 

Laura. [Very simply.] I'm going to be married this afternoon and 
then I'm going West. 

Jim. [Leaving the trunk and walking toii'ard her and hold- 
ing out his hands.] Now I'm just glad to hear that. Ye know when 
I heard how — how things was breakin' for ye — well I aint knockin' 
or anythin' like that, but me and the missus have talked ye over a 
lot. r never did think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by 
yer. Brockton never looked to me like a feller would marry any- 
body, but now that he's goin' through just to make you a nice 
respectable wife' I guess everything must have happened for the 
best. 

[Laura doesn't ansiver, and after Jim has shaken hep 
hand it falls listlessly to her side. She averts her 
75 



eyes.] 

Jim. Y'see 1 wanted to thank you for what you did a couple of 
weeks ago. Burgess wrote me a letter and told me I could go ahead 
of one of his big shows if I waned to come back, and offering me 
considerable money. He mentioned your name, Miss Laura, and 
I talked it over with the missus and — well I can tell ye now, when 
I couldn't if ye weren't going to be hooked up — we decided that I 
wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you [slowly] and the 
way I knew it was framed up. 

Laura. Why not? 

Jim. [Embarrassed.] Well, ye see, there are three kids and they're 
all growing up, all of them in school, and the missus, she's just 
about forgot show business and she's playing a star part in the 
kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes, and 
we figgered that as we'd always gone along kinder clean like it 
wouldn't be good for the kids to take a job comin' from Brockton 
because you — you — well — you 

Laura. I know. You thought it wasn't decent. Is that it? 

Jim. Oh, not exactly, only — well you see I'm gettin' along pretty 
good now. I got a little one night stand theatre out in Ohio — 
manager of it, too. The town is calied Gallipolis. [With a smile.] 
Maybe you don't know much about Gallipolis or where it is. 

Laura. No. 

Jim. Well it looks just like it sounds. We got a little house, and 
the old lady is happy, and I feel so good that I can even stand her 
cookin'. Of course we aint makin' much money, but I guess I'm 
gettin' a little old fashioned around theatres anyway. The fellows 
from newspapers and colleges have got it on me. Last time I 
asked a man for a job he asked me if I knew anything about the 
Greek drama, and when I told him I didn't know the Greeks had 
a theatre in New York he slipped me a laugh and told me to come 
again on some rainy Tuesday. Then Gallipolis showed on the map, 
and I beat it for the West. [Jim notices by this time the pain he 
has caused Laura, and is embarrassed.] Sorry if I hurt ye — didn't 
mean to, and now that yer goin' to be Mrs. Brockton, well I take 
back all I said, and while I don't think I want to change my position, 
I wouldn't turn it down for — for that other reason, that's all. 

Laura. [With a tone of defiance in her voice.] But, Mr. Weston, 
I'm not going to be Mrs. Brockton. 

Jim. No? 

Laura. No. 

Jim. Oh— Oh— 

Laura. I'm going to marry another man, and it'o going to be 
altogether different. I know what you meant when you said about 
the missus and the kids, and that's what I want — just a little home, 

76 



just a little peace, just a little comfort, and — and the man has come 
who's going to give it to me. You don't want me to say any more, 
do you? 

Jim. [Emphatically, and tmth a tone of hearty approval.'] No, 
I don't, and now I'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours 
and be real glad. I want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. 
I ain't never been a rival to Rockefeller, nor I ain't never made 
Harriman jealous, but since the day my old woman took her makeup 
off for the last time and walked out of that stage door to give me 
a little help and bring my kids into the world, I know that was 
the way to go along, and if you're goin' to take that road, by Jiminy, 
I'm glad of it, for you sure do deserve it. I wish yer luck. 

Laura. Thank you. 

Jim. I'm mighty glad you sidestepped Brockton. You're young, 
and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've got the right 
kind of a feller there ain't no reason on earth why you shouldn't 
jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but a lot of sun- 
light and laughs and good times comin' to ye. I'm mighty glad 1 
come, and the old woman will be just tickled to death. She just 
feels as if she knew you after I told her about them hard times we 
had at Farley's boarding house, so I feel that it's paid me to come 
to New York, even if I don't get the business I was looking at. 
[Goes over to her.'] Now I'm goin'. Don't forget Gallipolis's the 
name and sometimes the mail does get there I'd be awful glad if 
you wrote the missus a little note tellin' us how you're gettin' along, 
and if you ever have to ride on the Wheeling & Lake Erie just 
look out of the window when the train passes our town, because 
few do stop there, and make up your mind that the Weston house- 
hold is with you forty ways from the Jack day and night. Good-bye 
and God bless you. 

Lmira. Good-bye, Jim. I'm so glad to know you're happy, for 
it is good to be happy. 

Jim. You bet. 

[Moves toward the door. She follows him after they have 
shaken hands.'] 

Jim-. Never mind, I can get out all right. [Opens the door and at 
the door.] Gool-bye again. 

Laura. [Very softly.] Good-bye. [He exits and closes the door. 
She stands motionless until she hears the outer door slam, then she 
sinks into chair in deep thought] I wonder why he doesn't come. 
[She goes up and looks out of the zvindozv and turns dozwi stage, 
mechanically goes up stage again, inspects all the trunks and bag- 
gage, walks dozvn stage and sits in a chair, her apprehension and 
nervousness increasing every moment. She goes up to the portieres 
and opens them a little.] Annie, are you getting the things together? 

77 



Annie's Voice. Yes'm I'm mos' packed. 

[Laura returns to the windoiu and looks out. The hell 
rings.] 
Laura. Hurry, Annie, and see who that is. 

[Annie enters, Xes, opens door, exits, opens the outer 
door.'] 
Annie's Voice. She's waitin' for yer, Mr. Madison. 

[Laura hurries doztm to the C of stage. John enters, hat 
in hand and his overcoat on, followed by Annie. He 
stops just as he enters and looks at Laura long and 
searchingly. Laura instinctively feels that something 
has happened. She shudders and remains firm. 
Annie Xes and exits.'\ 
Laura. [With a little effort.] Aren't you a little late, dear? 
John. I — I was detained down town a few minutes. I think that 
we can probably carry out our plan all right. 
Laura. [After a pause.] Has anything happened? 
John. I've made all the arrangements. The men will be here in 
a few minutes for your trunks. I've got the railroad tickets and 
the license. You didn't have to be there with me. One of my 

friends arranged that, but 

Laura. But what, John? 

[He goes over to her, holds out both hands into which 
she limply places hers. She intuitively understands 
that she is about to go through an ordeal. She seems 
to feel that John has been acquainted with some fact 
which might interfere with their plan. He looks at 
her long and searchingly. He, too, evidently is much 
wrought up, but zvhen he speaks to her it is with 
a calm dignity and force which so truly shows the 
character of the man.] 
John. Laura. 
Laura. Yes? 

John. You know when I went down town I said I was going to 
call on two or three of my friends in Park Row who used to work 
with me on Western newspapers and who came to New York. 
Laura. I know. 

John. I told them what I came East for and my good luck and 
all that sort of thing, and who I was going to marry. 
Laura'. WelJ? 

John. It's pretty tough for me to go through this, Laura, but 
I've got to do it. They said something about you and Brockton, 
and when I tried to force something out of them I found ttiat they'd 
said too much but not quite enough. 

Laura. What did they say? 

7^ 



John. Just that — too much and not quite enough. One of the 
boys down there has gone through a lot with me. He was too 
much of a man to talk a lot, and he knew I wouldn't stand for a 
great deal. Now we're pa,cked up. and I've got the tickets, and 
there's a minister over here on Madison Avenue waiting for us. 
We can get to Chicago to-morrow morning if we go, and the Over- 
land Limited can get us out of there to-morrow afternoon. You 
see then you'll be my wife. That's pretty serious business, Laura, 
and all I want now from you is the truth. 

Laura. Well? 

John. Just tell me tha,t what they said, or rather intimated, was 
just an echo of the past — that it came from what had been going on 
before that wonderful day out in Colorado when we made our 
ao-reem.ent. I don't want their word, Laura, I just want yours. 
We've got to be together all the rest of our lives, and the onlv way 
we can end right is to start right, and the only way to start right is 
to tell the truth. Just say to me that all this gossip is ancient 
history and don't cut any figures with the things that have hap- 
pened since vou left Denver. \She is silent and almost ready to 
break dozini.] Dear. I don't want to hurt you. Tell me that you've 
been on the level, for I've been just as true as a, man can be, and 
that's the God's honest fact. 

[Laura summons all her courage, looks up into his loving 
eyes, shrinks a moment before his anxious face and 
Speaks as simply as she can.] 

Laura. Yes, John. I have been on the level, and all that you've 
heard was just an echo. 

John. \Very tenderly.] I knew that, dear, I knew it. \He takes 
her in his arms and kisses her. She clings to him in pitiful help- 
lessness. His manner is changed to one of almost boyish happiness.] 
Well now everything's all readv let's get on the job. We haven't a 
whole lot of time. Laura, vou've got trunks enouofh, haven't you? 
One might think we're moving a whole colony. \ Turns to her zvith 
a smile.] And, by the way, to me vou are a whole colony — anyway 
you're the only one I ever wanted to settle in. 

I^anra. When do we go? 

John. Right away. Lve arranged to have the stuff taken over. 
Tf we can't check it on this train why it will go through some way. 
The great idea is to get away. Get your duds on. 
Laura. All right. 

[John goes down to the L of stage, where a chair is, while 
Laura starts for her hat and coat toward the por- 
tieres. John takes out of a side coat pocket the mar- 
riage license, and with a smile commences to look it 
over. Just as Laura is about to reach the portieres the 
79 



outer door slams. She stops dead still and John looks 
up at her. Her back is to the stage. A iaich key is 
heard in the door. It opens slozvly and Will enters 
with coat and hat on. Laura turns around and faces 
him. He comes in leisurely, paying no attention to 
anyone. John 7'ises and becomes as rigid as a statue. 
Will leisurely walks across the stage and afterzvards 
into the rooms through the portieres. There is a tvait 
for a second. No one moves. Will re-enters unth his 
coat and hat off and goes doiim to R of stage op- 
posite John, sits in a chairs crosses his legs, smiles at 
the young man.^ 

Will. Hello, Madison, when did you get in? 

[Slozi^ly John seems to recover himself. His right hand 
starts up toward the lapel of his coat and slozvly he 
pulls his Colt revolver from the holster under his 
armpit. There is a deadly determination and delibera- 
tion in every movement that he makes. Will jumps 
to his feet and looks at him. The revolver is slozvly 
uplifted in the air, as a Western man handles a gun, 
so that when it is snapped dozvn zvith a jerk the deadly 
shot cam be fired. Laura is terror-stricken, but before 
the shot is fired she takes a step forzvard and extends 
one hand in a gesture of entreaty.'] 

Laura. \In a husky voice that is almost a whisper.] Don't shoot. 
[T'he gun remains uplifted for a moment. John is evi- 
dently zvavcring in his determiiration to kill, and 
slozvly his zvhole frame relaxes. He lozvers the pistol 
in his hand in a manner zvhich clearly indicates that 
he is not goiup; to shoot. He quietly puts it back in 
the holster and Will is obviously relieved, although 
he stood his ground like a man.] 

John. [Slozvly and in a low tone.] Yon said that just in time. 
Thank you. 

\A pause.] 

Will. {Recovering and in a light tone.] Well, you see, Madison, 
that what I said when I was 

John. [Threateningly.] Look out, Brockton, I don't want to talk 
to you. [The men confront. 

Will. All right. 

John. [To Laura.] Now get that man out of here. 

Laura. John, I 

John. Get him out. Get him out before I lose my temper and go 
to pieces or they'll take him out without his help. 

Laura. [To Will.] Go — go. Please g"o. 

80 



Will. [Deliberately.] If that's the way you want it I'm willing. 
[He exits into the sleeping apartment. Laura and John 
stand facing each other. He enters again zvith hat and 
coat in hand and passes over tozvard the door. Laura 
and John do not move. When he gets just a little to 
the L of the C of the stage Laura steps forzvard and 
speaks in a low tone and with great stress of feeling.'l 

Laura. Now before you go, and to you both, now I want to tell 
you how — how I've learned to despise him. John, I know you don't 
believe me. but it's true — it's true. I don't love anyone in the world 
but just you. You're the only decent ma,n who ever came into my 
life. I know you don't think that it can be explained — maybe there 
isn't any explanation. I couldn't help it, he forced himself upon 
me. I was so poor, and you were so poor, and I had to live, and he 
wouldn't let me work, and he's only let me live one way, and I was 
hungry. Do you know what that means? I was hungry and didn't 
have clothes to wear, and I tried, Oh. John, I tried so hard to do the 
other thing — the right thing — but I couldn't. They drove me. I 
don't want you to go now. I don't want you to believe that even for 
a single, little moment you weren't the only say one thing. I love 
you, and you're the onlv one I ever have loved. 

John. I — I knev/ I didn't help much, and perhaps I could have for- 
given you if you hadn't lied to me. That's what hurt. [Turning 
to Will.] I expected you to lie, you're that kind of a man. You 
left me with a, shake of the hand and you gave me your word, and 
you didn't keep it. Why should you keep it? Why should anything 
make any difference with you? You live here making war on un- 
fortunate women, beating them down, buying and selling them. 
Every move and every word you speak is a lie. I don't know where 
the responsibility of this thing lies, I only know what you've done. 
You keen your word, you know what a promise means, why, you 
pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent fotks'. 
Now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, I'll just kill vou, 
that's all. 

Will. Don't you talk to me that way. 

John. You'd better leave. 

Will. I'll leave, Madison, but I'm not eoing to let you think that 
I didn't do the right thing with you. When this business came off 
she came to me voluntarily. She said she wanted to come back. I 
told you that when I was in Colorado. I told you she couldn't stand 
the game, and you didn't believe me, and I told you that when she 
did this sort of thing I'd let you know. I dictated a letter to her 
to send to you, and I told you the truth in as few words as possible. 
I left it sealed and stamped in her hands to mail. She didn't mail 
it. If there's been a lie she told it. I didn't. 

8i 



John. [With a quiet appeal in his voice.] Laura! 
[She hangs her head and averts her eyes.] 
Will. You see. Why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the 
life I lead, no matter how different it is from you, I wouldn't have 
had this come to you for anything- in the world. [John makes an 
impatient gesture.] No, I wouldn't. My women don't mean a whole 
lot to me because I don't take them seriously. I wish I had the 
faith and the youth to feel the way you do. You're all in and 
broken up, but I wish I could be broken up just once. I thought I 
was on the level. I did what I thought was best for you, because 
I didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. 
I'm sorry it's all turned out bad. Good-bye. 

[He looks at John for a moment as if he was going to 
speak. John stands absolutely rigid. The blozv has 
'hit him harder than he thought. Will exits. The 
first door closes. In a momnet the second door is 
slammed. John and Laura look at each other for a 
moment. He gives her no chance to speak. The hurt 
in his heart and his accusation are shozvn by his broken 
manner. A great grief has stolen into his life and he 
doesn't quite understand it. He seems to be feeling 
around for something to say, some zvay to get onts. 
His head turns toward the door. With a pitiful ges- 
ture of the hand he looks at her in all his sorrow.] 
John. Well? 
Laura. John, I • 

John. I'd be careful what I said. Don't try to make excuses. I 
understand. 

Laura. It's not excuses. I want to tell you what's in my heart, but 
I can't, it won't speak and you don't believe my voice. 
John. You'd better leave it unsaid. 

Laura. [Slozdy going down and sitting in a chair at the table* 
opposite John, looking at him.] But I must tell you. I can't let you 
go like this. [She goes over to him and makes a weak attempt to 
put her arms around him. He takes her arms and puts them bacU 
to her side.] I love you. I — how can I tell you — but I do, I do, and 
you won't believe me. 

[He remains silent for a moment and then takes her 
by the hand, leads her over to the chair and places 
her in it.] 

John. I think you do as far as you are able, but, Laura, I'm 
afraid you don't know what a decent sentiment is. [He looks azvay 
from her a few paces, gathers himself together, takes another chair, 
moves it tozvard her, places it back so that it faces her, and then sits 
astride of it. His tone is very gentle and very firm, but it carries a 

82 



tremendous conviction, even with his grief ringing through his- 
speech.} If ever I was in need of a word I am now. I don't know 
how to say what I want to say, and it's the first time in my life that 
I've been placed just this way. Laura, you're not immoral, you're 
just unmoral, and there isn't a particle of hope for you. When we 
met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but I thought that you 
thought that it was the chance of salvation which sometimes comes 
to a man and a woman when they do meet that way, and we loved — 
I did — wholly, truly, decently. What had been, had been. It was 
all in the great to-be, for us, and now, now how you've kept your 
word. What little that promise meant that you gave me out in 
Colorado when I thought you handed me a new lease of life. 

Laura. [In a voice that is changed and metallic. She is literally, 
being nailed to the cross.] You're killing me — killing me. 

John. No, don't make such a mistake. In a month you'll recover. 
There will be days when, over a cocktail glass with a lot of folks 
around, having a good time, that you'll look out across its rim and 
see me as I was that day when we came together, and you'll shudder 
just for a moment, and take another drink, and then it'll be all over. 
Why, Laura, you're as shallow as a sun-dried gulch in the desert. 
With you it is always the easy way — expediency is your god and 
you'll worship it until the end. You'll go on and on until you are 
finally left a wreck, physically and every other way. Just the type 
of the common women. You'll never make a fight. The wrong 
way is the easy way. It's your way and always has been — always 
will be. I pity you, pity you from the bottom of my heart. If you 
ever had a chance it was with me. You've thrown that away and 
you'll go down, down, down, until you've reached the very bedrock 
of depravity. 

Laura. [Still in the same metallic tone of voice. \ You'll never 
leave me to do that. I'll kill myself. 

John. Perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do. Perhaps, 
after all, that's the only hope, but you'll not do it. It's easier to live. 
[He rises and takes a step toivard his hat and coat, Laura 
rising at the same time.} 

Laura. John, I said I'd kill myself and I mean it. If it's the only 
thing to do I'll do it, and I'll do it before your very eyes. 

[She crosses quickly to the desk and takes a pistol from the 
drazuer. John looks at her a moment with the saddest 
sort of a smile flitting across his face. He goes to the 
chair zvhere his coat and hat are, puts his coat over his 
arm, takes his hat in his hand and starts to the door.] 

Laura. [Waiting a moment.'] You understand that when you put 
your hand on that door I'm going to shoot myself. I will, so help 
me God. , 

83 



John. [Stops and looks at her.'] Women sometimes work them^ 
selves into a fit of hysteria and act foolishly. If they had a moment's 
thought it might be different ; but if you think you ought to kill 
yourself, and you want to do it in front of me, I don't see why you 
shouldn't have the chance. [Raising his voice.] Annie, Annie! 

Annie. [Her voice off stage.] Yes, sir. 

John. Come here. [Annie appears at the portieres. Laura looks 
at John in bewilderment.] You see your mistress there has a pistol 
in her hand? 

Annie. [Frightened.] Yes, sir. 

John. She wants to kill herself. I just called you to witness that 
the act is entirely voluntary on her part. That it is neither desired 
or suggested by me. Now, Laura, go ahead. 

Laura. [Nearly collapsing, drops the pistol to the floor.] John, 
I — can't 

John. Annie, she's changed her mind. You can go. 

Annie. But, Miss Laura, I 

John. [Pcremtorily.] You can go. [Bezvildered and not under- 
standing, Annie exits through the portieres. In that same gentle 
tone, hut carrying zvith it an almost frigid conviction.] You didn't 
have the nerve. I knew you wouldn't. You never squarely faced 
a situation or a difficulty in your life, and you never will. It's the 
same old story of evasion. No matter what the cost, just for a 
moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die. 
You were quite sure of that, and yet you couldn't go through. I am 
sorry for you, more sorry than I can tell. 

[JJe takes a step tozvards the door.] 

Laura. You're going — you're going? 

John. Yes. 

Laura. And — and — you never thought that perhaps I'm frail, and 
weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, I need your strength, 
and you might give it to me, and it might be better. I want to 
lean on you, John. I know I need some one. Aren't you going 
to let me? 

John. I gave you your chance, Laura, but you leaned the wrong 
way. Good-bye. I — I hope you'll get on all right. [Exit.] 

Laura. John — John — I 

[She stands listless for a moment, then turns and walks' 
two or three steps right dozmv stage, again turns 
toward the door and her eye catches the pistol on the 
floor. She goes over toward it fear fid and hesitatingly, 
picks it up, looks at it, and then very quickly walks* 
over to the desk, throws it into the drazver, and shuts 
it quickly. She zvalks back tozi^ards the table, and as 
she passes she sees her reflection in the mirror. Her 
84 



hair has become somewhat disheveled, and the m-^ 
stinct of the woman of this type immediately gains 
hold of her and she stops and adjusts it. Then she 
goes dozvn to the chair at the L of the table and sits 
down. Annie appears through the portieres.] 
Annie. Miss Laura, ain't you goin' away? . 

Laura [Suddenly arousing herself, and with a defiant voice \- 
No, I'm not. I'm going to stay right here. Open these trunks, 
take out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. Hurry up [^^He 
goes before the mirror.] Get my new hat, dress up mv body and 
paint up my face. It's all they've left of me. [To herself.] They vc 
taken my soul away with them. 
Annie. [In a happy voice.] Yes'm, yes'm. , ^ 

Lmira. [Who is arranging her hair.] Doll me up, Annie. 
Annie. You goin' out. Miss Laura? i . u n -^u 

Laura. Yes. I'm going to Rector's to make a hit and to hell with 

Annie. [Who is by this time zvorking frantically at the trunks.]] 
That's the way, Miss Laura— men ain't no good nohow ! [Laura s 
nerve suddenly fails her again, she staggers a little, she steps back, 
and sinks in a chair next the table. Her hands are clasped between, 
her knees, her body is bent forzmrd, her eyes are glassy, and the^ 
crrief is nmnging her heart. Annie m the meantime is busy at 
her work she has opentd a trunk and laid out a handsome gown, 
evidenth perfectly contented, and is singing m a low voice Bon^ 
Bon Buddie, the Chocolate Drop.'' The melody reaches Laura s 
ears; she shudders.] 

Laura. Oh, God ! Oh, my God ! 



Curtain. 



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